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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25995433">The Wind Picks Up (And I’ll Never Let You Down)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lohrendrell/pseuds/Lohrendrell'>Lohrendrell</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Action, Brief Jaskier/Priscilla, Canon-Typical Violence, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion is Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon's Parent, M/M, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Should/Could/Is Trope</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 02:55:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>22,050</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25995433</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lohrendrell/pseuds/Lohrendrell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Geralt should have pulled his head out of his arse and seen his wrongdoings right away, and apologized to Jaskier immediately after chasing him away on top of that mountain. Geralt could even have taken his time to get over himself and apologize some time later, it would be fine, Jaskier would take him back. Instead, here’s what happened:</p>
<p>
  <i>The girl pulled her cloak tighter around herself, trying to hide her hair better.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“In…” The girl started, sounding unsure and desperate. She was whispering now. “In the pages of one of your journals, there is a ballad for a girl you once loved the most. You never showed it to anyone and you don’t talk about it, except on one occasion when you were drunk and grieving. You babbled about her and her untimely demise. Her name was Essi Daven. She was like a little sister for you, you miss her more than you miss your own real sisters, and part of you feels guilty about that, but you would trade all of them for one more day with Essi.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Jaskier’s eyes went impossibly wide.</i>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon &amp; Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>67</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>243</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Some time ago, I saw a post on Tumblr proposing a new trope similar to the 5+1 Things. It consisted basically on a “what should have happened”, “what could have happened”, and “what actually happened” scenario. I can’t find the original post anymore, but I thought the idea was lovely and it deserves to become a well established trope in fandom.</p>
<p>This is my attempt at this lovely new trope, featuring a very competent Jaskier (he is so clever in the books y’all, if he isn’t like that in the next seasons of the show I’m gonna riot), Obligatory Fic of Geralt Apologizing After the Infamous Mountain, and Ciri and Jaskier bonding, because I just got to the part where they met in Time of Contempt and it was glorious and I love them.</p>
<p>Oh yeah, this is a mix between Jaskier from the show and Jaskier from the books. This is not exactly canon compliant, I’ll mix a lot of book, game and show events here and there because I can’t help myself—best of Jaskier and lore from all worlds ;)</p>
<p>Huge thank you for <b><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/luminescent_forest">luminescent_forest</a></b> for editing this with all the patience and care in the world &lt;3</p>
<p>Title taken from The Amazing Devil's "Not Yet / Love Run" lyrics.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>It <i>should</i> have happened like this:</b>
</p><p>Jaskier strode down the mountain, doing his best to keep up with Yarpin’s company. He had interviewed the dwarves about their version of that day’s ordeals only to realize that they didn’t know much more than him. When he sat and watched Borch talking to Yennefer and Geralt earlier, Jaskier was able to put together the pieces of Borch’s secret. Gifting the dragon’s teeth to Yarpin’s company instead of Yennefer and Geralt was the telltale sign that Borch’s concern was with hiding the secret of his existence and his descendant—although this was only speculation.</p><p>Still, he stumbled down the mountain more or less alongside the dwarves, who now only talked about the wealth and pleasantries they would be graced with once they delivered the dragon teeth to their king. Jaskier’s heart was shredded and his legs felt as if muscle was tearing from bone, but he still said his farewells to Roach.</p><p>A broken heart was a poet’s biggest treasure. He composed not one, but two ballads about the tragic ineptitude of a white wolf’s ability to recognize true love even when it was shoved right in front of his stupid gorgeous face. Jaskier could already see himself: in a court or a mansion, maybe somewhere with a vineyard, with the most beautiful of countesses or princesses or at least some very wealthy lady—maybe a widow would understand the misery of his broken heart better than anyone—sympathizing with Jaskier’s suffering. She would bring him under her wing, provide him with the comforts of her best rooms, her best silks, and Jaskier would be allowed all the sweet lovemaking he would need to cure his shattered soul.</p><p>He sighed, thinking that he was about to live his best life yet. In a year or two he wouldn’t even remember dragons and mountains; he would forget that stoic witchers and cold enchantresses existed altogether. He would be happy, and his petty vengeance in the form of ballads would be sung across the Continent forever.</p><p>Jaskier strolled along an unfamiliar road with the hope that it would  lead to a town sooner rather than later. It was deserted except for the occasional bunny and other harmless creatures crossing his path—no hirikkas. He walked, strumming his lute and singing all the sorrows fostered inside his heart.</p><p>Who cared about countesses or princesses or rich ladies, really? Try as he might, filling the void left by Geralt’s absence would do nothing to satiate the longing in his heart.</p><p>To complete his misery, it started to rain. He didn’t care. Well, he did care, the doublet he was wearing was an expensive one (more expensive than usual, that is) and the last fashion in Cidaris too, but the whole scenario fit quite well with the general aesthetic of his feelings, so he cared much less than he normally would.</p><p>He would've kept walking and, with his luck, get eaten by a beast, if not for the distant shout stopping him in his tracks.</p><p>“Jaskier!”</p><p>The rhythmic sound of Roach’s trouts reached his ears first. He saw the witcher responsible for his heartache—nearly twenty-two years of that particular kind of ache, if Jaskier was to be sincere—galloping towards him.</p><p>“Jaskier” Geralt shouted again, as if Jaskier weren’t frozen in place, waiting for him to reach him. </p><p>“Geralt?” Jaskier asked once Geralt stopped and dismounted Roach. “What are you doing here?”</p><p>“I’m sorry.” Grabbing him by the elbows, Geralt pulled him closer. With the lute between them, it made for an awkward—was that even an embrace?—but still Jaskier felt emotional over it. “I didn’t mean it,” Geralt was saying, “I was… I was angry, I—”</p><p>“You were a jerk, Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier said, though it didn’t come out as biting as he intended. Geralt’s hair was drenched, falling over his shoulder; his eyes fluttered with every raindrop that blurred his vision. Jaskier’s gaze traced the path of the droplets in Geralt’s face—how they fell over his nose, accentuated his cheekbones, emolturated the curve of his lips. Geralt always made an enticing image to look at, now more than ever.</p><p>“I was,” Geralt said, agreeing with him for the first time since ever, really. And, “I’m sorry,” he added, and, “I love you,” and kissed him.</p><p>And even though the kind of hurt Jaskier felt could not be cured with a kiss, even though he was sure he would be still sore for a long time, and that he knew how much this with Geralt, whatever it would be, would be a terrible idea—for a romance with Geralt of Rivia meant more dramatics than actual romance, Jaskier knew from the cabin seat he occupied in all those years he watched Geralt jump from one sorceress to another—Jaskier couldn’t help leaning in, give himself whole to the kiss. He had been yearning for it for close to two decades, and <i>he deserved it</i>. He deserved it, dammit, and now that Geralt was finally giving it to him, he would be a fool to say no.</p><p>He kissed back. He forgave the witcher. They started something unique between them, something that neither had ever had.</p><p>It all ended well.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>——</p>
</div><b>It <i>could</i> have happened like this:</b><p>Jaskier, a brokenhearted and tired man in his forties, who had just lost the love of his life <i>and</i> the era of the best adventures, lumbered down the mountain in that day that had become the worst of his entire existence. And that was saying something, given that twenty-two years in the company of a dramatic witcher made for distinct and creative kinds of bad days—including poverty, occasional starvation, a few kidnappings here and there and, oh, yeah, that one time when Geralt got himself wrapped up with a <i>fucking child of surprise</i>.</p><p>Who would have thought? His worst day was being caused by something as asinine as heartbreak.</p><p>No matter! Jaskier was a poet, and heartbreaks were not only a poet’s biggest treasure, but his best source of inspiration. As far as heartbreaks went, that was hardly his first. Jaskier might be destined to die a brokenhearted man, but not before his name was well known throughout Continent. Generations to come would sing of the famous troubadour Jaskier, and of his tragic unrequited love, as well as some very nasty ballads about a certain obtuse witcher and his wicked enchantress.</p><p>Maybe he should add some insults in the ballad he already had in the making.</p><p>With no more witchery adventures to live and catalog anymore and with precious little resources on his own, he decided to finally accept the yearly invitation from the chancellor of Oxenfurt to integrate their board of Professors. In Oxenfurt, Jaskier could nurse the turmoil that were his feelings and, in the peace of domestic life, turn them into song while basking in the sensation of being appreciated—no, <i>adored</i> for his talents by a crowd of young students with shiny eyes and big dreams.</p><p>It was all fine. Jaskier was fine, really, he’d survived worse. He taught what he knew, graded schoolwork of which he never saw the necessity for, and composed. A lot. Throughout the seasons, Oxenfurt was the birthplace of some of his best works.</p><p>With the falling of leaves in autumn, he mulled over his best and worst days, and composed songs after songs of longing, and loving.</p><p>Summers were graced with uplifting ballads of battles won, and Jaskier even wrote some tales of lovers reunited and true love kisses.</p><p>Springs mostly inspired him to compose of the adventures he lived second handedly, of wyverns and basilisks and morally grey fairies.</p><p>And in winters, he couldn’t help thinking of white wolves in snow and singing of a mysterious keep at the top of an ice cold mountain, unknown to all those who weren’t meant to ever set foot in it, but home for those who never had a choice.</p><p>On his third winter at Oxenfurt, Jaskier looked up from his music only to spot through the window a different white wolf from his ballads. <i>His</i> White Wolf.</p><p>Geralt was in the middle of the street, standing still in the early snowstorm as if he didn’t even register the cold. (He was always like that, almost never feeling cold, even when frostbite gnawed at Jaskier’s toes.) He was staring at Jaskier intently, as if standing guard, and Jaskier… well, he had imagined, once, that the heartbreak would always remain a quiet, steady thrum in his chest, for he never truly forgot about it, not in the way he eventually survived his other failures at love.</p><p>So it surprised him quite a lot when his heart palpitated hard, as if trying to jump out of his chest, trying to escape through his throat, only to lash itself at the White Wolf that came back for it.</p><p>“Geralt,” Jaskier said, whispering it, knowing Geralt would be able to hear it.</p><p>Geralt said nothing, but Jaskier saw his posture changing—his shoulders going all tight, fists clenching by his sides. He was nervous. Poor thing. Could he hear Jaskier’s heartbeat? Would he know what it meant?</p><p>“Geralt, it’s cold,” Jaskier said, a little louder now. And, before Geralt could do one of his mental acrobatics and interpret everything wrong—and assume the worst—he continued. “Don’t just stand there in the middle of the snow, you’ll freeze. The door is unlocked. Come inside.”</p><p>When he was a young, southern boy from Kerack that had just arrived in the North, Jaskier almost died in the snow. He remembered feeling feverish and numb all at once. He couldn’t move, and he barely felt his fingers.</p><p>In the two minutes it took for Geralt to angst in silence before making up his mind, Jaskier felt like he was freezing over in the snow. In the quiet of the night, he listened intently as Geralt made his way inside the small rooms Jaskier was given when he became a Professor. Geralt locked the door behind him, and his footsteps took him to the door of Jaskier’s bedroom. He was barefoot; he had certainly noticed Jaskier’s boots by the door and followed suit.</p><p>“Oh, Geralt. You can’t walk barefoot in this cold. I’ll get you some socks.” Jaskier did what he always did when he didn’t know what else to do: he talked. “Honestly, witcher, you don’t wear socks underneath your boots? No wonder your feet stink. But I understand. Years and years I made the same mistake, until I met this lovely viscount in Aldersberg. Prickly as they come, you know, born in nobility, never set foot in real dirt, but he did have lovely feet and, well, after spending two delightful days in his chambers I’d be a fool to not ask him how he took care—”</p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p>Jaskier stopped rummaging inside the chest by the bed. He had one sock in one hand, only needed to find its pair. “W-what?”</p><p>“I’m sorry, Jaskier,” Geralt repeated. His voice was gruffy and low, as if he hadn’t used it in months. Had Geralt been alone ever since they parted? Jaskier’s heart clenched. Geralt could say he preferred solitude as much as he liked, but he couldn’t fool Jaskier. The witcher wouldn’t survive so long on the Path without some sort of companion, even occasionally. The company of a horse could only do so much; he would die from the self loathing that polluted his mind.</p><p>“For what?” Jaskier said, without thinking, trying to make light of the conversation.</p><p>“Everything. The mountain, my words… the years before that.” Geralt’s golden eyes were shining and dilated. There was so much emotion in those eyes, Jaskier always thought. Ever since that first day in that tavern in Posada—so much emotion, how could one ever say witchers didn’t have emotions? “I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Geralt.” Jaskier didn’t notice himself standing up or walking towards the witcher. He only realized he had Geralt’s face in his hands, half a pair of socks abandoned somewhere on the floor, when his fingers brushed at the iciness of his beloved's skin. Geralt had a three-to-five-days stubble, and not for the first time Jaskier wondered how dashing he would look like in a full beard. “How long were you standing there in the street?”</p><p>“Not long,” Geralt answered, which could either be the truth or just code for <i>a really long time</i>. Jaskier had retired to his rooms early in the evening, before the sun had set, and he tended to lock out the rest of the world when he was concentrated. It could have been hours of Geralt in the snow, cold, watching him.</p><p>“I drew a bath for myself earlier. The water is cold now, but you can use igni, right? Won’t you warm up there while I fetch something for us to eat?”</p><p>Geralt closed his eyes, frowning, as if Jaskier’s words had wounded him. Jaskier thought Geralt would say something along the lines of, ‘I don’t deserve this,’ or, ‘I don’t need a bath,’ but what Geralt said was, “I don’t understand.”</p><p>“What you don’t understand, dear?”</p><p>“How you can accept me so easily.” Geralt’s voice failed a little. He almost choked in his words. “After everything.”</p><p>“Darling.” Jaskier smiled. “I will accept you over and over again, always, if you’ll have me.”</p><p>Geralt inhaled sharply and fell on his knees. Jaskier wondered if he was hurting somewhere, even though he hadn’t seen any hint of blood, or any of the tells of injury he got used to searching for in the aftermath of a difficult battle.</p><p>Geralt grabbed at Jaskier’s middle, embracing him tightly. “Forgive me,” he said.</p><p>“Dearest,” Jaskier said, still with a smile, a little laugh, trying to sound light. “Are you asking for forgiveness or for my hand? I’ll have you know that, for the latter, I expect at least a very expensive ring.”</p><p>Geralt didn’t register what he had just said, or didn’t care for Jaskier’s attempt at lightening the mood. “Forgive me,” he repeated, voice deep and full of emotion. His ragged breath and cold cheeks touched Jaskier’s stomach. Jaskier couldn’t help shuddering. “Forgive me.”</p><p>Jaskier traced his hands along Geralt’s locks. They were damp from the snow, matted from who knew how long without care, and so very beautiful, just as Jaskier remembered.</p><p>“Always, my love,” Jaskier whispered as Geralt trembled, inhaled, exhaled, lost control. “I will always forgive you.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>——</p>
</div><b>It <i>actually</i> happened like this:</b><p>Jaskier was counting his coins on the table by the corner of the shitty inn in the shitty town he was staying at. He owed the innkeeper for a three-days stay, a room, four meals and a bath—two, because by Melitele’s tits, he wasn’t going to leave the town and venture on the road for who knew how long without cleaning up properly.</p><p>He cursed mutely. He had sung for three days all over the city, but his hard work gave pitiful fruition. These were war times for entertainers, he guessed: when people’s primary concern was either to leave or to stay and survive, very little was spared for those who sung, or acted, or crafted. Only those who dealt with carnal pleasures seemed to thrive in those trying times. Adelaijde, the owner of the only brothel in town, had already cast him out, precisely because the girls offered their services for him for free.</p><p>Oh, well. He had been through worse. Perhaps it was time to visit his family, it had been what, fifteen years? More? And he was in the realms of Kerack, not far from home. The kingdom currently had some kind of peace treaty with Nilfgaard, meaning its people would probably be left alone for now, though who knew for how long? The Pankratzes could use some updates on world affairs and Jaskier’s valuable tips on where to invest their money, and Jaskier certainly could use some family shelter until he got sick of the noble lifestyle, or until they got sick of him. Or until war reached Lettenhove.</p><p>Musing as he was over his near-future prospects, he almost didn’t notice the girl sitting across from him. Part of him expected it to be the cute boy from across the street, the baker’s apprentice that made eyes at Jaskier when he passed by with his lute. Jaskier was about to bat his eyelashes and make a joke about being disappointed the young man hadn’t sat on his lap, but was caught off guard by the sight of a very young girl he had never seen before.</p><p>She was young, very young, maybe twelve or thirteen, with ashen hair mediocrely disguised as brown with—what was that, literal dirt?—and green eyes wide with apprehension. Even without witcher senses, Jaskier could feel the fear emanating from the girl. Her face wasn’t all that unfamiliar, maybe he had seen her before. Did he know her? Probably not. She looked at him as if she knew him, though. Maybe he knew her mother?</p><p>Oh, goddess. It was one of his children, wasn’t it? Melitele’s tits, Jaskier knew that there were more chances than not that he had left a few children of his own here and there, in courts and taverns and possibly once, in a very distinct but no less enticing southern marriage ritual. But he went a lifetime without knowing a single one of them, why did it have to happen now?</p><p>Those were war times for you, he guessed. People fled, or stayed and survived, or died, and sometimes those who were left behind had to try and find the last of their kin.</p><p>Resolute, he sighed, and tried his best to not look disappointed when he greeted her, lamely. “Uhm… Hello?”</p><p>“You’re Jaskier, the troubadour,” she spoke in a rushed, almost whispered voice—trying to be as quiet as she could, he realized.</p><p>I’m not ready to be a father, Jaskier thought. I don’t even think I’d make a good one, please, just— “Yes, yes, I am,” he said, and smiled at her, trying to sound gentle. Averse as he was about the idea of fatherhood, Jaskier knew from experience how displeasure from a father left marks, and he didn’t want to be the cause of those for his maybe-daughter. “You’ve heard of me, I see. I <i>am</i> very famous.”</p><p>The girl nodded, and when she didn’t say anything else, but still eyed him expectantly, he tried, “And you are…?”</p><p>She licked her lips, looked around to see if anyone was listening to them. A couple of Nilfgaardian soldiers had just entered the inn—low-ranked, if what Jaskier learned about the Nilfgaardian army for Dijkstra in his travels was any true—and were being attended by the owner (who was, in fact, trying to convince the soldiers to leave without offending them, because no one really wanted to serve Nilfgaardiands north of the Yaruga River).</p><p>The girl pulled her cloak tighter around herself, trying to hide her hair better. That cloak looked so much like one of Geralt’s, only smaller, like Geralt had ripped a chunk of his own to fit the girl’s stature—and there it was, Jaskier thinking about him <i>again</i>, and in the worst moments, as usual.</p><p>“In…” The girl started, sounding unsure and desperate. She was whispering now. “In the pages of one of your journals, there is a ballad for a girl you once loved the most. You never showed it to anyone and you don’t talk about it, except on one occasion when you were drunk and grieving. You babbled about her and her untimely demise. Her name was Essi Daven. She was like a little sister for you, you miss her more than you miss your own real sisters, and part of you feels guilty about that, but you would trade all of them for one more day with Essi.”</p><p>Jaskier’s eyes went impossibly wide.</p><p>“Who—” he started, but stopped when it dawned on him—</p><p>That hair.</p><p>—Jaskier had never, ever told anyone about Essi. It was too painful—</p><p>That face.</p><p>—Except that one time he did talk about her, or so he thought, but he was so drunk—</p><p>She was a mirror image to Princess Pavetta of Cintra.</p><p>—He thought he sang Essi’s ballad that one night, but come morning, his witcher companion didn’t speak about it, and so Jaskier wanted to believe he dreamt it all.</p><p>This was no daughter of his.</p><p>This was Geralt’s child of surprise.</p><p>“Fuck me,” Jaskier said, feeling out of breath, as if he had run up a mountain, only to have his heart broken up there, and had run back down again.</p><p>The girl was looking at him with pleading green eyes, and Jaskier’s heart sank in both fear and realization as he understood the desperation he felt coming from her. War was approaching, Jaskier knew. Coming from the south. Jaskier had fled from Sodden before the massacre and went up north, not setting foot south of Verden ever since.</p><p>The last whispers from courts and groups of refugees told tales of the great kingdom of Cintra being obliterated by Nilfgaard from the south. The Lioness of Cintra fell. The whole capital fell. Cintra was no more.</p><p>He did wonder, at the time, if Geralt ever learned of Cintra’s fall. Jaskier had no way to warn him, not knowing where the witcher was and losing all contact ever since that fucking dragon hunt, and if part of Jaskier wanted to roam around the continent and try to find him, well…</p><p>Let’s just say it wasn’t that much of a coincidence that he was in Kerack after so much time spent in the northern portion of the continent.</p><p>Geralt did learn of the tragedy, it seemed. Finally, <i>finally</i>, the witcher had come to his senses and went to get the child that belonged to him. </p><p>The innkeeper didn’t manage to convince the Nilfgaardian soldiers to leave. Jaskier saw as they chose a place right in the middle of the bar, on Jaskier’s way toward the stairs that led to the room he was staying at. He also saw the girl—Geralt’s child, this was <i>Geralt’s child</i>—visibly stiffening, terrified, as the soldiers made themselves comfortable and ordered ale and something to eat.</p><p>Well. Jaskier didn’t spend the better part of his youth hiding from vengeful cuckold lords and angry parents to learn nothing. He calmly collected his coins, keeping the ones he owed the innkeeper in one hand and hiding his coin purse in his vests.</p><p>He gave the girl a bright smile. “Hah! Essi, my sweet pie!” he said, not loudly, but not whispering it either. “I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon!”</p><p>Her eyes were so wide they were almost jumping out. She prepared to get up, to flee, but Jaskier steadied her with his hands on both of her shoulders, not letting her move or turn to look at the soldiers who only spared him a glance.</p><p>“What brings you here? I missed you!” he continued, and when the innkeeper came to their table, Jaskier maintained his huge smile as he spilled half truths. “Ah, Yorek, my good man! Do you remember Essi? Little Eye’s little sister, and therefore my little sister as well. She’ll be under my care from now on, and mark my words, good sir: the two of us, Essi and Dandelion, will make the best duo of actors the entire continent has ever seen!”</p><p>Yorek just raised an eyebrow at him. Jaskier was anticipating the man would ask follow up questions, but he only lifted his hand, demanding the coin he was owed.</p><p>“Yes, here.” Jaskier put the handful of coins in the man’s hands, letting go of one of Not-Essi’s shoulders. She didn’t flee. “And please send a bath upstairs and some food for now, will you? We’ll be very grateful. Oh, and more ale!”</p><p>The man scoffed, but nodded. Not two minutes later, Jaskier and Geralt’s child had ale in their hands and the leftovers of the chicken he had cooked for lunch. Jaskier saw Yorek’s employees going up and down the stairs, carrying a wooden bathtub and several buckets of water.</p><p>“Well, go on, then,” Jaskier told the girl, who was staring at the food with both hunger and distrust. “Come on, you don’t fool me. If I had to guess one thing about your… adventures in the last few months, it’s that you’re starving. Go on, help yourself.” He took a sip of his ale, and when the girl tried turning her head, he said, quietly, “Don’t look.”</p><p>The girl eyed him intently—goddess, she might have Pavetta’s face, but her stare, her demeanor? All Geralt—and so he assured her one more time: “I’m watching everything from here.” The soldiers were eating the same leftover chicken that was served for them. “They didn’t see you. They won’t. For now, just eat.”</p><p>She did as she was told, though Jaskier understood she did so out of lack of alternatives, not out of trust. “Hm,” he hummed to himself, drinking his ale, and as the soldiers ate and laughed amongst themselves, Jaskier pretended to drink, refilling the girl’s cup whenever it went a little empty, and waited for her to finish eating.</p><p>The soldiers didn’t look like they were going to leave any time soon, still talking and making lewd jokes even after they finished eating. Jaskier understood the crudeness of their sense of humor partially because of his noble upbringing and partially because of the boorish company that circled him in his travels.</p><p>If Jaskier were to guess, those weren’t traditionally trained soldiers. More likely, those were cases of city boys drafted for war five or six months before being departed. Their training consisted mostly of learning to wield a sword properly and follow orders—just enough to be fodder for the enemies. It was a wonder that the group survived all the way up to Kerack.</p><p>The girl had an appetite equal to Geralt’s own. Maybe it was the months of running away and starvation, or maybe it was Destiny’s razor-sharp sense of humor. Ultimately, it didn’t matter. Jaskier gave her half of his own food. He wasn’t hungry, and he preferred her to be in conditions to endure whatever he had to come up with next.</p><p>“Alright,” he said softly after she finished eating. She seemed less frightened, though still distrusting. “Here’s what we’re going to do,” he whispered. “I will take you upstairs, to the room I rented. There we will wait a bit, and then we'll talk, alright?”</p><p>Not-Essi didn’t answer. Jaskier watched her swallow hard, as if debating whether to follow him or not. He saw Yorek approaching, certainly to tell them the bath was warm and ready. Jaskier got up before he got to their table.</p><p>Not-Essi followed suit. </p><p>“Yorek, my good man, I thank you.” Jaskier spoke louder now. “We’re gonna need another night, you see, my companion is very tired. You think you could bear with us for that long?”</p><p>Yorek nodded. “If you have the coin. Extra, for the girl.”</p><p>He didn’t like the tone Yorek used; it was as if he was implying something Jaskier found too disgusting to even think. Still, Jaskier laughed loudly, obnoxiously. “A man of business, I see.”</p><p>He gave the man more coins, not bothering hiding where he kept the coin stash in his vests. He could feel some eyes on him—on them, perhaps—and he knew they were mostly for the coin stash, though he couldn’t rule out they could also be for the girl.</p><p>With the payment out of the way, Jaskier grabbed his lute case with one hand and with the other clasped the girl’s shoulder, maneuvering her to stand on his other side. Keeping her close, he guided her across the bar, keeping his body between the soldiers and the girl. She wasn’t very tall, but he wasn’t very broad.</p><p>They managed it. Jaskier noticed how the chit-chatting at the soldiers’ table didn’t exactly die down, but definitely diminished. He tried not to look directly, but he saw, from the corner of his eye, that some of them were staring at him and the girl, as if inspecting them.</p><p>Nobody tried to stop them. Upon arriving at his room, Jaskier quickly opened the door and pushed the girl inside, locking it after himself.</p><p>From his vast amount of stealth exercises (“Is that what you call running away from vengeful husbands?” he could almost hear Geralt deriding him), both for being an irresistible lover of all persons, including wives, concubines, mothers sometimes, and later, as Dijkstra’s… <i>collaborator</i>, Jaskier learned to anticipate when his stunts didn’t exactly land. He knew it was only a matter of time before someone came knocking on the door, either with a laughable excuse of checking the temperature of the water or a blunt demand to give up the girl. He really wanted to talk to the child and ask her some questions, but that would have to be put on hold for now.</p><p>Well, Jaskier thought. He’d survived worse.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Not-Essi stood in the middle of the room, gaze alternating between the hot bath and Jaskier, who was roaming around, sorting through his belongings for the necessities—coins, his writing books (all of them), clean clothes, the bath salts and oils (even if they weren’t exactly essential, he spent <i>a lot</i> on those, he would pull out his own teeth before leaving them behind), the new pair of boots he bought because his current ones were on the verge of falling apart...</p>
<p>“What are you doing?”</p>
<p>“Hm? I’m just, uhm. Making space for you, darling, of course.”</p>
<p>The girl frowned, not buying it. She opened her mouth, but before she could ask anything else, Jaskier winked and gestured for her to stay quiet. They had to be careful with throwing their voices around.</p>
<p>“Here.” He handed her a clean bathing cloth. Speaking close to her ear, softly, he instructed her, “Wash your face and whatever you can of your hair. Rest for a minute. Don’t bathe, we don’t have much time.”</p>
<p>The child looked puzzled, but did as she was told. Jaskier went back to his task. </p>
<p>The books he was carrying were expensive and made for very pleasant reads, but weren’t valuable for the kind of people that were sure to arrive soon; they could be abandoned.</p>
<p>Dijkstra’s letters, though, couldn’t be left behind. There was nothing particularly telling in them—Dijkstra was a careful man—but it would be best to not leave any traces of his associations with the Redanian Secret Service. If Nilfgaard was insisting on chasing the girl all the way up to Kerack, Redania would at the very least ask <i>why</i>. And if word got out that Jaskier met the girl and <i>didn’t</i> report back immediately, Dijkstra would use his distinguished interrogation methods on Jaskier’s limbs the moment his men captured him.</p>
<p>He secured those stupid letters in the little handbag where he hid the diamond gifted to him by the princess of Temeria’s lady-in-waiting.</p>
<p>They would need food on the road. Jaskier’s provisions consisted mainly of unused herbs and a small sack of cabbages. His initial idea was to refill his stash with meat, cheese, and grains in the market before leaving town, but the plans had changed. He could ask the innkeeper to wrap up a couple of meals for the road, but getting down there again would be risky. Even if he succeeded, there was no way of knowing if his potential chasers kept tracking hounds.</p>
<p>He wrapped the cabbages and the herbs; they would have to do for a couple of days. They could always hunt for meat and pick up fruits in the forest. Geralt could provide the meat, if he was anywhere nearby.</p>
<p>”Where is he?” Jaskier asked, careful to not give away names.</p>
<p>Not-Essi shrugged in answer. She cleaned the grime from her face and hair as best as she could while Jaskier bagged everything—blankets! He should steal all the blankets he could carry—and when he signaled, she followed.</p>
<p>Footsteps approached shortly after the girl and the bard retreated to their rented room, it couldn’t have been more than ten minutes. Had those footsteps belonged to someone acquainted with Jaskier's poetry, they would recall that famous anecdote about expectations and the unfortunate reality of things.</p>
<p>As it was, their visitors didn’t exactly make for a troupe of erudites.</p>
<p>The door was kicked down. Nilfgaardian soldiers stood alongside a grumbled innkeeper in the empty room. Jaskier couldn’t witness their young, dumb faces melting under hot steam and recognized failure, nonetheless, he composed in their homage some time later: <i>The stooges, full of astute / Made a fine swarm of galoots / To a triumphant capture they stomped, only to blow it / Unaware they could never outsmart the poet.</i></p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>——</p>
</div>“How did you do that?” Not-Essi asked two hours later. She obediently stayed quiet that whole time until Jaskier, after confirming they had not been followed, let go of her shoulder. The girl interpreted that as permission to relax and talk.<p>“How did I do what?” Jaskier asked, scanning their surroundings. He had guided her off the road and into the forest in order to avoid other travellers. Not too deep, though, because stumbling upon any creature would be neither wise or pleasant.</p>
<p>Furthermore, if Geralt were nearby, he would be in the woods—although Jaskier was starting to doubt the witcher was close; Geralt would have found them by now.</p>
<p>“First of all,” she was saying, “we jumped out a window in the middle of the town and didn’t attract any sort of commotion.”</p>
<p>Jaskier grinned. “We did though, didn’t we?”</p>
<p>“And then we just walked out of town, in front of everyone, and nobody even glanced at us for more than two seconds.”</p>
<p>“Ah, yes.”</p>
<p>“Were you using a glamour spell? Are you a mage?”</p>
<p>“I’m not a mage and no, I wasn’t using any glamours.”</p>
<p>“Then how?”</p>
<p>Jaskier snorted. “You’d be surprised how little novelty a man and a girl jumping out a window make.” He would know. Rare were the times the townsfolk gossiped about the troubadour who was seen jumping out windows he had no business ever approaching. Bereft, jealous suitors or overzealous siblings—those were the ones who babbled about Jaskier’s escapades for the people who would want to kill him for it (when he wasn’t caught in the act, that is).</p>
<p>“You weren’t even trying to hide!” Not-Essi said, indignant. She gestured at his clothes—the bright orange doublet with golden adornments. “I was wearing a cloak! My face was hidden the entire time and still I was almost caught before I found you.”</p>
<p>“That was precisely why you were almost caught. You were trying so hard to hide that you didn’t blend in. Who won’t notice a shrunken girl in a black cloak, avoiding everyone and trying to hide her face? On the other hand, nobody will blink once at two people strolling out of town and down the main road. The best disguise is the one worn in plain sight. Nobody will suspect you if you don’t look suspicious. Learn that.”</p>
<p>She frowned. “That’s not what Geralt taught me.”</p>
<p>“Geralt knows many things, yes, including camouflage. Blending in society? Not his expertise.”</p>
<p>“And how do you know all of that?”</p>
<p>Jaskier chuckled. “Let’s just say a bard has to learn whatever he has to learn in order to live his best life.”</p>
<p>The girl hummed <i>exactly</i> like Geralt.</p>
<p>Jaskier watched her for a moment. The chunk of Geralt’s cloak she was wearing was torn and dirty. She was pale, skimpy. Her posture was tight, not the habitual kind one could observe amongst royals, but one resembling a wounded animal. It was as if she expected an attack at any second. Jaskier wouldn’t be surprised if the child displayed some paranoid tendencies. He could only imagine the horrors she witnessed when Nilfgaard invaded Cintra.</p>
<p>When Princess Pavetta gave birth, the druid Mousesack wrote to Jaskier of all people, certainly hoping Jaskier would relay the information to Geralt. Little did he know of Geralt’s mental collapse and Jaskier’s subsequent near-death experience with the djinn. Per Geralt’s request, after the djinn incident, Jaskier did not meet with Mousesack, did not play in the Cintrian court any longer, nor did he ask about the child. Were Jaskier to learn anything without meaning to, he wasn’t supposed to tell Geralt about it.</p>
<p>As much as he didn’t agree with Geralt, as much as he thought Geralt was only hurting himself, Jaskier would be lying if he said he didn’t have a soft spot for the witcher. He would die before denying his beloved anything, even if his wish was for life to take Jaskier off his hands. And, being the romantic sap that he was, Jaskier fulfilled Geralt’s requests—all of them, even if the last one cut through his flesh as if Jaskier were a monster and Geralt’s words, silver.</p>
<p>Which meant he knew nothing about the Lion Cub of Cintra.</p>
<p>“What is your name, princess?”</p>
<p>She eyed him warily. Jaskier could only guess, sympathetic, how much time it had been since the girl heard anyone using her rightful title. “How do you know that?”</p>
<p>He gave her an indulgent smile. “Know what, that you are a princess? Isn’t that obvious? I am Geralt’s greatest friend, didn’t he send you to find me?”</p>
<p>She looked down and kicked a rock with her next step. “Not exactly.”</p>
<p>“Oh?”</p>
<p>“You were wearing brightly colored clothes, you announced yourself as the talented troubadour and sang of the White Wolf. It fit Geralt’s description, so I followed you. It wasn’t like I was trying to find you.”</p>
<p>“I see. You and Geralt weren’t travelling together, then?”</p>
<p>“We were.” She kicked a twig. “We got separated.”</p>
<p>“When?”</p>
<p>“Couple of days ago.”</p>
<p>“Where?”</p>
<p>“In the woods.”</p>
<p>“Where in the woods?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know. Not far from the town.”</p>
<p>“Why? What happened?”</p>
<p>“Do you always ask this many questions?”</p>
<p>Jaskier grinned. “Did Geralt fail to include that in his dossier?”</p>
<p>She huffed. Her lips tightened and she didn’t answer, but Jaskier had already understood everything.</p>
<p>“You were being attacked, weren’t you? And he told you to run away.”</p>
<p>She eyed him intently before replying, “They’ve been on our tail for days now. Nothing Geralt did took them off our backs, and I…” She looked solemn. “I kept having nightmares. I screamed, and Geralt said I said some things, I… </p>
<p>“It attracted them,” she continued when Jaskier said nothing. “I was attracting them and we couldn’t figure out how. One night Geralt woke me up. He could hear them approaching. He told me to run and to mind the list. I haven’t seen him since.”</p>
<p>Jaskier felt as if his shoulders weren’t just carrying the lute case and the travelling bag; they were heavy with melancholy, with twenty-four years of yearning. His chest squeezed with panic at the thought of Geralt staying behind, sacrificing himself for his child of surprise…</p>
<p>Jaskier shuddered.</p>
<p>“Who were you running from?” he asked, though he knew the answer. Nilfgaard murdered Queen Calanthe, the Lioness of Cintra; they wouldn’t stop until they got their hands on her granddaughter.</p>
<p>When the girl didn’t answer Nilfgaard right away and nibbled at her bottom lip, Jaskier frowned. Was there more than one persecutor? Who?</p>
<p>“What is your name, then?” he asked, dropping the subject for now. “You didn’t tell me.”</p>
<p>“Anna.”</p>
<p>“Don’t lie to me. What’s the good of a travel companion if they’ll lie to one another?”</p>
<p>“You’re not my travel companion.”</p>
<p>He laughed. “I’d rather say I am. We’re travelling together, aren’t we?”</p>
<p>“And do you have any idea of where we are, or where we’re going?” she asked, gesturing around, defiant.</p>
<p>Oh, ho-ho, she was the combination of a lioness and a she-wolf, wasn’t she? Witcher scion, indeed.</p>
<p>“But of course! You might not be aware, princess, but we are in my homeland of Kerack, better known as The Dipshit Kingdom By The Coast with incompetent pirates as kings. And if Geralt failed to mention my proud origins, my lady, I’ll be morally obliged to tell you he failed miserably at this one task. I know everything there is to know about Kerack, and you’ll sooner than later find that sticking with me, the Viscount of Lettenhove—” he winked, teasingly “—is your best shot not only at survival, but at living the best, most luxurious life a pair of crummy fugitives could ever hope for.”</p>
<p>The girl looked away, doing her best to hide her amusement. “He didn’t fail all that much,” she said, quietly. “You’re as obnoxious as he said you were.”</p>
<p>Jaskier burst into laughter. “And what did he say about other people, hm? You mentioned a list?”</p>
<p>She tensed a bit, but Jaskier knew he was already gaining her trust. He waited until she sighed and answered. “The list of people Geralt told me to trust if we ever got separated.”</p>
<p>“Oh.” Something tugged at Jaskier’s chest, strong, insistent. Had he been younger, he would’ve suspected it was the memory of the blunt wish for a very specific kind of life’s blessing, but Jaskier knew better. It was the two decades that came before that.</p>
<p>The forever impulsive, extravagant side of his nature urged him to abandon everything, turn around and go find the stupid, stubborn witcher wherever he was.</p>
<p>The girl’s voice grounded him. “He told me if I ever found someone, to convince them of who I was. He said that with some it would be tough, but they would believe me if I offered critical information.”</p>
<p>She meant secrets only known to Geralt and the person she found.</p>
<p>Jaskier swallowed down the fury that burned in his core and threatened to emerge through his throat. He had meant to take the secret of Essi’s death to the grave. Geralt wasn’t supposed to know. What for? He broke her heart—a feeling Jaskier was all too familiar with—chomping a chunk of his own in the process, and worst of it all, he didn’t learn anything from it. All because of a foolish obsession that had always, always, <i>always</i> messed with his head.</p>
<p>Geralt didn’t deserve to know of Essi, his dear sweet Little Eye, whose passing still resonated heavy and suffocating in Jaskier’s rib cage, a fervorous pain ignited by all kinds of little things, something uncontrollable that Jaskier had already accepted would always be there. Even if the pain diminished with time, he would always mourn the loss of his little sister.</p>
<p>“That’s smart,” Jaskier said, softly, realizing he had become silent for too long. The girl was watching him with her big green eyes and ash grey hair. She looked nothing like his Little Eye, but the curiosity and concern in that juvenile face felt strangely familiar. “That’s a very smart strategy,” he said, because seething as he might’ve been at Geralt, it would be fatuous to deny that the witcher was one of the best strategists Jaskier had ever met. “And hey, it worked. Here I am, believing every word you say.” He offered her a smile, patting the top of her head.</p>
<p>The girl nodded, saying nothing.</p>
<p>They walked for a couple kilometers in silent companionship, Jaskier lost in his thoughts and Geralt’s child of surprise lost in hers. She glanced at him on occasions. He could tell when she considered asking him something and gave up. When she scanned their surroundings, he could tell she was trying to memorize the scenario, the trees—trying to learn the pathway just in case she needed to walk through it again.</p>
<p>“Ciri,” she said a few hours later, when they were sitting down to rest for a bit.</p>
<p>“What’s that, my dear?”</p>
<p>“My name is Ciri.”</p>
<p>“Ah. That’s a beautiful name. Too recognizable, though, probably, if you want my opinion. Have you adopted a pseudonym for the road yet?”</p>
<p>“You were calling me Essi a few hours ago.”</p>
<p>“Yes, and it was very painful for me. I’d like not to have to do that again.”</p>
<p>Ciri crossed her arms. “Fiona,” she said.</p>
<p>“Fiona.” Jaskier tested the name in his lips. It would do. “Well, Fiona, I hope you learned your lesson. To blend in, you have to actually look unperturbed. Even if you’re entering the private library of a sadistic king, or the chambers of his favourite paramour.”</p>
<p>The examples made her laugh. “Confidence is key. Got it.”</p>
<p>After some thought, he added, “But don’t go entering places you don’t have to. Only when absolutely essential.”</p>
<p>Ciri didn’t answer, but Jaskier could tell she was thinking it through, absorbing his words.</p>
<p>Later still, after walking for hours and when the sun was starting to set, Ciri turned to him and asked, “If you were just going to call me Fiona anyway, why ask me for my real name?”</p>
<p>Jaskier smiled at her. “My dear, don’t tell me you weren’t really expecting a poet to not ask everything there is to know of a lost princess? People’s truths are a poet’s greatest treasure.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>——</p>
</div>Jaskier and Ciri settled for the night at the foot of a giant oak tree. They were short on water, so he avoided cooking until they could find some kind of stream. They didn’t hunt that day, focusing more on putting as much distance as they could from the previous town. They only stopped for a while so Jaskier could pluck tiny fruits from their bushes, which was all they dined on that night.<p>He lit a small fire (which took way too long without Geralt’s igni), not adequate to warm them properly, but good enough to not leave them in complete pitch black.</p>
<p>Jaskier read over Dijkstra’s letters, one by one. There were six of them, and he analyzed them attentively, memorizing the contents of each one and searching for anything he missed. Dijkstra wanted him to go to Sodden, take a look at the kingdom after Nilfgaard’s onslaught, and report back. He didn’t say anything about reporting personally, so Jaskier would send a letter over in the first opportunity.</p>
<p>He didn’t need to go to Sodden to know it was in ruins. Horrid tales of the massacre permeated courts and the imagination of the poor. Fourteen mages had been killed. The former kingdom was split in two, left with no leadership, and it was only a matter of time before King Foltest of Temeria or someone else turned their eyes to the northern portion of what was left.</p>
<p>Jaskier threw the letters into the fire, watching them burn with satisfaction. Fuck Dijkstra. Jaskier had more important matters to attend to. The report had the sole goal of preventing a hunt for his head.</p>
<p>He wrapped Ciri and himself up with the stolen blankets. He tried prying more information from the child, hoping beyond hope to predict Geralt’s whereabouts. However, exhausted as she was—if Jaskier were to guess, she wasn’t sleeping properly ever since separating from the witcher—Ciri fell asleep moments after settling down. She leaned heavily on Jaskier’s side, warm under the blankets, dozing off mid-sentence as she tried to explain something about Brokilon Forest and a Mousesack who wasn’t Mousesack. He didn’t understand, but he let the poor thing sleep.</p>
<p>Sleep escaped him that first night. Many thoughts imbued his mind, mainly of a certain witcher who tried so damn hard to not want for anything, to not burden the people around him with his problems, that he often got lost inside his head <i>and then burdened the people around him with his problems</i>. Goddess, Jaskier missed him so much. He wanted to sucker punch the witcher and sing him a ribald song about his idiocy, and then shove him into a bathtub and wash his ridiculously gorgeous hair.</p>
<p>They had been walking aimlessly through the forest, careful to not leave traces behind. Humans wouldn’t be able to follow them, but Geralt was a master tracker. Surely he would find them sooner or later?</p>
<p>Unless… </p>
<p>Jaskier didn’t think about it.</p>
<p>He also wondered what happened to Ciri during the sack of Cintra. From the way Ciri talked, it didn’t seem like she and Geralt had been travelling together for too long. She spoke of the witcher as if he were some kind of entity, a guardian, a promised protector. The intimacy Jaskier would expect from two people linked by Destiny’s version of fatherhood was missing completely.</p>
<p>So far, he had been improvising. He needed to form a plan soon. If word had already spread that the Lion Cub of Cintra was travelling with the troubadour, it would be very difficult to hide in plain sight. The road and the forest were their best options. Towns and villages should be used only for refilling their provisions.</p>
<p>Maybe Jaskier could take her somewhere safer. A trustworthy estate. They were already in Kerack… Would his family take her? Would they take <i>him<i> after all these years? Could he trust them with Geralt’s secret?</i></i></p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Ciri stirred and mumbled something, still asleep. She was getting agitated, so Jaskier tucked her closer.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Shh,” he soothed, “it’s all right, it’s okay. It’s Jaskier. It’s just me.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>She relaxed again, and Jaskier continued caressing her hair.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>More so than the object of his affections and the child of surprise, Jaskier thought of <i>his</i> little girl. He had managed to not think of Essi in a long, long time. Today, the memories caught him off guard and drowned him.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>There had been a time, long ago, when he would sit with Little Eye just like this. He would tell her all kinds of stories, fictional and real, and teach her all kinds of songs, including the bawdy ones other adults deemed unacceptable. He would help her practice with her own lute, the one he had gotten made especially for her.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>She shouldn’t be much older than Ciri was now, in those times. She would giggle and snuggle up to him, delighted with the stories that made her laugh. And Jaskier would preen when she praised his ability to nail a particularly hard note—for he knew children seldom lied, and his Essi lied even less, and so all of her was genuine: her laughter, her praise, her tears when he parted from Oxenfurt to fulfill his wanderlust, her anger whenever he missed her performances at flowery festivals.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>He concentrated on taking deep breaths. Jaskier was fundamentally a man who didn’t believe in looking at the abyss—there was too much beauty in the world to focus on what would seldom do more than look back at you—but he would be a hypocrite if he said there were no moments when the void took him by surprise.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>And so he breathed to avoid drowning in it altogether.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i></i>
  </i>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>——</p>
</div>It took them five days to arrive at the next down. By then, both were starving, exhausted, and fed up with the wildlife. The forest seemed innocuous, devoid of beasts and other harmful creatures. To compensate, the harmless ones were fragile and tasteless; even the fattest rabbit didn’t make much of a dinner.<p>Nonetheless, it wasn’t Jaskier’s first time on the road. Even without the glorious meals provided by a witcher on the hunt, they could skip by days with tranquility. Sure, they were starving for good meat and aching for a soft bed, but they would live.</p>
<p>The problem was the nightmares.</p>
<p>On the first night, when Jaskier soothed Ciri in her restless sleep, he thought that was one of the nightmares she spoke about.</p>
<p>He was so wrong.</p>
<p>Some nights, Ciri didn’t relax, no matter how much Jaskier tried to soothe her. She fought his embrace, and his voice didn’t seem to register. Sometimes, she pleaded in her slumber—“No! No, I don’t want to, please, no!”—and woke up startled. In those nights, Jaskier swallowed hard and thought the worst.</p>
<p>The worst of it, though, were the screams.</p>
<p>Ciri woke up screaming on the third night, when Jaskier was tired enough to doze off in a sitting position. He staggered awake, and had to literally hold Ciri down with his weight to muffle her screams—she could attract <i>anything</i>, and Jaskier was no warrior.</p>
<p>At first, he thought the girl was just processing the last few days. Maybe the momma bear and its cubs that had sneaked up on them had afflicted her—for sure the sheltered upbringing had never allowed her to happen upon such an enormous animal in person.</p>
<p>He quickly realized that wasn’t the case.</p>
<p>He had to wrap Ciri up with the blankets again two nights later, and embrace her tightly to muffle her screams. It was agonizing, and Jaskier thought he felt some kind of energy pushing him away—nothing strong, but the same sort of tug he felt when Pavetta screamed at the court all those years ago. She had pushed dozens of knights and noblemen to the ground with barely a strain, and Jaskier remembered thinking if that was what leaves felt like in a windstorm. For a moment, he had feared for his life.</p>
<p>“Didn’t you hear it?” Ciri asked, between gasps, cheeks wet with tears.</p>
<p>“Heard what, sweetheart?” Jaskier tried to sound calm.</p>
<p>“Them! Didn’t you hear them? Calling me?”</p>
<p>“Who, Ciri?”</p>
<p>“The voices!”</p>
<p>“What voices? I didn’t hear anything.”</p>
<p>“I don’t know!” She fell into his arms and cried, loud, raw and  panicked. “They’re trying to catch me, they’re calling me, I don’t want to go with them!”</p>
<p>Jaskier had never wished so hard for Geralt’s presence.</p>
<p>After a lot of cooing and reassurances, the girl told him about the invasion of Cintra and the black knight in a helmet adorned with the wings of a bird of prey who killed Mousesack and nearly kidnapped her.</p>
<p>With no ability to fend off monstrous creatures or the Nilfgaardian army, Jaskier stopped questioning the girl. He stirred their conversations towards his adventures with Geralt through the years; Ciri was clearly idolizing the witcher already. She wanted to know everything about him, and so Jaskier sang to her of their many adventures together.</p>
<p>That seemed to calm her a little bit. The nightmares stopped.</p>
<p>They arrived at the town in the evening, which was just ideal. This town was nothing special, bigger than the previous one, and just as stinky. The good people were withdrawing to the comfort of their homes while the drunks and the thugs emerged from alleyways.</p>
<p>Jaskier was quick to procure them a place to stay. They didn’t have much coin, and although Jaskier knew it was risky, he sang in the tavern for a couple of hours. He didn’t give his real name or sing the ballads of the White Wolf or the Raven Enchantress.</p>
<p>It meant he wasn’t recognized and therefore made much less than he would do on a regular night. While half of him was flattered and proud that his name was famous enough to guarantee significant profit, the other half of him was outraged: this was just ridiculous! It barely covered the expenses with the room and food, not to count what he needed to spend at the market.</p>
<p>Later that night, Jaskier put together some new clothes for Ciri while she ate her fill. The stolen bedsheets and curtains from the last inn served as makeshift silk.</p>
<p>“I don’t need new clothes,” Ciri complained.</p>
<p>“Yes, you do, my little one. Look at the state of these.” He touched Geralt’s cloak, so torn it almost fell apart in his fingers. Most of the pieces she wore underneath it would still hold, but she needed something with lower quality if they didn’t want to broadcast her royal origins.</p>
<p>“I’m not your little one,” Ciri mumbled.</p>
<p>Jaskier ignored her. “Besides, we don’t want you walking around in old witcher fashion, do we?”</p>
<p>“And what will we be sleeping with when it’s cold? My new pair of pants?”</p>
<p>“Don’t be a smartass. I’ll steal more blankets from this room. These ones are better, anyway.”</p>
<p>“Can you even sew?”</p>
<p>“Why, yes! I’ll let you know that maintaining my very expensive and tasteful yet fragile accouterment requires some very specific skills!”</p>
<p>“You look like you couldn’t sew a babe-sized cloak even to save your life.”</p>
<p>“Of course I could! How difficult is a cloak when you’re on the verge of despair? Turn up a profit with said cloak, though, that’s entirely another matter.”</p>
<p>“Careful to not sew your fingers together. Or into the vests.”</p>
<p>“Wouldn’t be that much of a tragedy.”</p>
<p>“No? A girl walking around dressed in curtains adorned with bloody fingers—”</p>
<p>“And rings! Don’t forget my beautiful expensive rings.”</p>
<p>“Not a tragedy, not creepy at all. How does that work for blending in society and go unnoticed?”</p>
<p>“It doesn’t. But really, walking around in silver and blood from the most skilled troubadour history has ever known? You’d be walking poetry, if nothing else.” He winked at her.</p>
<p>Ciri laughed despite herself.</p>
<p>By the time they went to bed, Jaskier had eaten his half of the meal and sewn Ciri a set of makeshift vests <i>and</i> a new cloak, just to show her.</p>
<p>“It looks brilliant,” he said when the girl tried the vests out over her own clothes.</p>
<p>“It… fits,” Ciri said, diplomatic, her scowl betraying her displeasure.</p>
<p>“Oh, c’mon. At least you look less like a miniature of a witcher and more like a poor, harmless peasant girl that no one will look at twice.”</p>
<p>Ciri grunted so much like Geralt that Jaskier had to hold down a chuckle. She didn’t complain any further.</p>
<p>He couldn’t patch up Geralt’s torn cloak—the witcher had ripped it with his hands, as typical. It was better to just leave the piece behind, but Jaskier couldn’t bear to separate from it, not when he didn’t know of Geralt’s whereabouts.</p>
<p>He made sure to wrap Ciri up as best as he could, using even the sheets from his own bed. He didn’t want to risk those terrifying screams attracting unwanted attention where it would be difficult to flee. A nice meal and a false sense of security seemed to do the trick, though. Ciri didn’t wake up once during the night, and neither did Jaskier.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>——</p>
</div>The next morning, Jaskier ordered a bath as soon as he woke up. He bathed quickly in the washroom while Ciri slept, and when she roused, he told her to do the same.<p>“Take your time, but don’t go too slow either, I want to be back soon and we’ll leave by midday,” he told her as he buttoned up the light pink doublet. The orange one he was wearing before was filthy, but there was no time to send it to be washed. He stuffed the dirty clothes at the bottom of his travelling bag, wrapped with Geralt’s cloak and Ciri’s former clothes.</p>
<p>That morning, he decided staying on the road was too dangerous for a child with night terrors  and possibly undisclosed powers. Geralt could track them anywhere they went, so Jaskier would take Ciri to Lettenhove and beg the Pankratz household to take them in for a season or two. They would wait for Geralt there. Jaskier would keep Ciri safe, educate her as best as he could, and when—if—Geralt showed up, they would go wherever the witcher set their destination to.</p>
<p>Jaskier worked as fast as he could to send the letter filled with half truths to Dijkstra—by Melitele’s tits, it was so expensive to send letters these days; fuck wars, and fuck Nilfgaard for starting them—and refill their provisions in the market. He was making his way back to the inn, contemplating two possibilities: could he take a moment to hit up the brothel? A quick distraction would do wonders to his tired bones. And no less important, should he pay a visit to the apothecary? Perhaps it would be a good idea to cut Ciri’s hair short and dye it with that strange black ink actors often used.</p>
<p>He stopped in his tracks when he heard the familiar voice:</p>
<p>“Jaskier!”</p>
<p>Jaskier startled, turned around, heart palpitating in recognition.</p>
<p>“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered. He couldn’t help beaming, a warm current of relief flooding him as the witcher made his way over. Finally, Ciri and Jaskier’s fugitive days were coming to an end. Finally, they were safe.</p>
<p>He took in the sight of his beloved, both for the simple pleasure of ogling the marvelous man Geralt was, and in order to search for any signs of injury. When he found none, Jaskier was ready to open his mouth and nag at Geralt about <i>what took him so fucking long, seriously, Geralt, I was in the woods, cold and alone and hungry and scared, and nothing of you showing up, not even to help us hunt rabbits, what the fuck—</i></p>
<p>“Jaskier,” Geralt said, coming to a stop in front of Jaskier. Goddess, he was as handsome as Jaskier remembered him. It had been what, two, three years since they parted ways on the top of that mountain?</p>
<p>I missed you, Jaskier almost blurted out. You broke my heart and then tangled me up with your fugitive child of surprise, but still I missed you, you constipated, leathered up, sad excuse of a functional person.</p>
<p>“Where have you been?” Jaskier said, still beaming as he reached for Geralt. He touched the witcher’s shoulder, palm fully open and ready to grip the witcher’s black armor tightly, the way he always did. As blissful as he was, Jaskier almost missed the slight flinch and the second of pained expression in Geralt’s face.</p>
<p>Almost.</p>
<p>Geralt leaned back at the same time Jaskier retreated his hand.</p>
<p>There was something fascinating that most people claimed to have, that was called a survival instinct. It had been described to him more than a handful of times as a <i>thing</i>, a feeling, something deeply seated in their subconscious that made their body itch with a tirade of <i>danger, danger, danger</i>.</p>
<p>Jaskier marveled at the existence of such an instinctual defense, for he himself lacked such a feature.</p>
<p>Yes, Jaskier had been accused several times, even by his own Geralt (mostly, in fact), that he had no survival instincts whatsoever. Although he couldn’t argue with that, it helped him develop his own defense mechanism. What he lacked was compensated with observation skills.</p>
<p>Geralt flinched. It was barely a second, but it happened. He flinched, and he felt pain, and he did so when Jaskier touched his shoulder. When Jaskier’s silver rings touched him.</p>
<p>This was no witcher.</p>
<p>It was a creature.</p>
<p>It was a <i>fucking doppler</i>.</p>
<p>Oh, fuck, Jaskier thought. His smile broadened, he spread his arms. “You won’t believe what just happened!” he said, before Not-Geralt had the chance to utter anything. “Remember the Novigradian apples I was telling you about? You won’t believe it, we’re in such a lucky stream these days.”</p>
<p>He shoved the package of provisions right into Geralt’s face. “The market was filled with them! Can you believe it? Novigradian apples, all the way down in Kerack! And fresh! What the fuck, right? I bought a whole case.”</p>
<p>“Jaskier,” Not-Geralt tried to cut his thorough explanation of why Novigradian apples were superior to pretty much any other kinds of apples, but Jaskier didn’t stop speaking, unwilling to give the doppler space to interrogate him.</p>
<p>‘When a doppler assumes the form of its attacker, it gains some of its skills,’ Jaskier read once. For all purposes, Jaskier assumed right then and there that this doppler gained Geralt’s ability to smell lies, and if it was after who Jaskier thought it was after—for what other reason a fucking doppler woult be sneaking up on Jaskier, disguised as Geralt?—<i>he could not let it ask any questions</i>.</p>
<p>Not-Geralt eyed him hopelessly, clearly waiting for the moment Jaskier would stop talking. He wouldn’t.</p>
<p>“And you see, it’s the same as, say, Toussaint wines, you can’t best the best, I always say—outbest the best? You get what I mean. And why the hell would Aldenberg start trying to trade wine, anyway? Have you tasted their wine? It’s like juice, but watered down, only worse than that. And anyway, Geralt, about the apples—”</p>
<p>After meeting Dudu, Geralt educated Jaskier on this particular creature. “Dopplers aren’t generally malicious, but they can be hired,” Geralt had told him. “Or they can become malicious if trying to survive. Image and voice aren’t the only thing they can imitate, they can also access your memories when they transform into you.</p>
<p>“What you will do, if you ever encounter one and don’t feel safe,” Geralt had taught him, “is three things. First, try to use silver; if a doppler is trying to hide, it will avoid silver at any cost. Second, flee; if it isn’t malicious and is only trying to survive, it won’t follow you. You flee if you feel like you’re in danger, and you find me. Three, if the silver didn’t work, and the doppler didn’t leave you alone, improvise.</p>
<p>“Here is the trick,” Geralt had said, all those years ago. “The memories they capture date only up until the moment they shapeshift, when they last saw the victim.”</p>
<p>“And anyway, Geralt,” Jaskier said, “forget about apples, by the gods, you’re obsessed. Did you get the herbs?”</p>
<p>“What?” Not-Geralt said.</p>
<p>“The herbs, Geralt, that I asked you like, three times this morning?” Jaskier put his hands on his hips. The sacks from the marketplace dangled weirdly by his sides. “Unbelievable. I ask you to do one thing while I find us food and shelter, and you can’t even complete the task. You had one job, Geralt, and I can’t rub my special chamomile oil onto your lovely bottom without chamomile!”</p>
<p>“Uhm,” Not-Geralt said, so un-Geralt-like, Jaskier wondered if this doppler in particular was even willing to do what he was doing. “The girl…”</p>
<p>“What girl?” Jaskier inquired, loudly. “I can’t believe it. You got together with a girl and forgot my fucking herbs.” Jaskier gesticulated broadly as he talked and walked away from the creature. “And you accuse me of thinking with my dick! When you are the one who can’t even bring me back the chamomile I asked!”</p>
<p>Very confused and flustered (dopplers really weren’t malicious, were they? Jaskier almost felt bad), Not-Geralt stumbled in pace beside Jaskier. “Where are we staying?” he asked. He sounded anxious.</p>
<p>“Oh, yeah, I didn’t have time to show you. Over there.” Jaskier pointed to the first random inn he saw. “The innkeeper said she would give us a discount if we stayed in the room with a leak in the roof. I hope that’s okay. It doesn’t look like it’s going to rain, but if she said that it will, maybe it will.”</p>
<p>“Where’s the coin?”</p>
<p>“Coin? Ugh, you spent yours on your mistress, didn’t you?” Jaskier made a show of fishing for a couple of coins he had in his pocket. “I hope she was worth it, Geralt of Rivia, because I’m really fucking seething right now.”</p>
<p>After handing the coin, Jaskier watched a very confused Not-Geralt stumble around the city, in search of the marketplace. He went the opposite way from where Jaskier had just been, so he didn’t know the city yet—which meant he was either the same doppler Ciri had told him about, or a second shapeshifter, a foreigner. The possibility of the latter was frightening—was Nilfgaard gathering a small army of dopplers? This was information Dijkstra would like to know about, but Jaskier had already sent the letter.</p>
<p>Oh, well. It wasn’t like his loyalty belonged to Dijkstra.</p>
<p>Once he was sure Not-Geralt had disappeared in the crowd, Jaskier rushed to the inn where he and Ciri stayed overnight.</p>
<p>“Fiona,” he called, hurriedly, as he entered their room. Thanks to Melitele, Ciri had already bathed and dressed, and was folding the bed sheets and shoving them into Jaskier’s bag—he was so proud, barely a week and she already learned to steal! “We have to go. Now!”</p>
<p>“What? Why? What happened?”</p>
<p>Jaskier hastily told her about the doppler—not in details, they didn’t have time for that—while shoving the market purchases into the bag. Traveling bag on one shoulder, lute case on the other, and one hand wrapped tightly around Ciri’s, Jaskier rushed out of town.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>- The whole shenanigans with the djinn here are a mix of the books and the Netflix show. Geralt and Jaskier's first encounter with the djinn happened according to the books up until the first wish. The rest goes as the series made it be: Geralt had insomnia, he found a djinn, he only didn’t say “I just want some damn peace”, so Jaskier was attacked for being a little shit, not because Geralt accidentally wished it. I’m just making it clear because there’s a brief exchange in this chapter that I didn’t want to give up. It’s a small thing that doesn’t affect the story, but it makes me happy :D</p>
<p>- I prefer to tag all the characters and relationships on a WIP beforehand, but this chapter was just <i>not working</i>! I rewrote it so many times D: Until finally Priscilla, getting tired of my shit, took my hand and said, "I got this." And with her, the chapter flowed so much better! So heads up that there will be some minor Jaskier/Priscilla in this, but don't worry, the Jaskier/Geralt is still endgame.</p>
<p>- Many, many, many thanks and all the big hugs for my dear friend Cai for being my beta! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Life on the run wasn’t easy.</p>
<p>Not that Jaskier was unfamiliar to this particular kind of venture. He had always been a restless child, collecting escape attempts almost to the pace his sisters collected seashells. At thirteen, when he was little more than a soft-cheeked, wide-eyed runaway strolling around Oxenfurt, the meaning of having to look out for himself truly started to sink in. Later still, his absolute disregard for frivolous societal symbols such as monogamy, virginity and matrimony often had him light on his feet. Running away from bloodthirsty monsters became second nature after so many years following his witcher.</p>
<p>For all his lack of survival instincts, Jaskier’s propensity to fleeing for his life wasn’t a bad habit, per se—he knew his limitations and he was a fan of staying alive, thank you very much. He only felt embarrassed about it amongst warriors, who didn’t even seem to register scampering as an option. Nevertheless, slipping away from the grasps of an army known for massacres and grisly invasions was remarkably different from everything a humble bard could ever hope to face.</p>
<p>“Argh!” Jaskier fell on his back, lying on the damp grass, the makeshift fishing rod secured between his thighs. “I miss civilization!”</p>
<p>“Argh!” Ciri imitated him, flopping down on her back beside him. “Me too!”</p>
<p>“I want indoors!” he whined. “Sit by the fireplace, sleep on a soft bed.”</p>
<p>“And scented oils for my hair,” Ciri whined as well.</p>
<p>“And mesmerize fair maidens with my musical prowess…”</p>
<p>“And go to the marketplace…”</p>
<p>“And warm baths and seasoned food—actually seasoned, not these wild herbs we’ve been collecting. If I have another mushroom stew seasoned with, with—grass! I’ll retch, I swear!”</p>
<p>Ciri nodded, empathetic. “Oh, and I want to watch the puppet shows in the streets!”</p>
<p>“I want to buy a new doublet and get the tailor to spill the recent gossip on strangers I’ll never even meet. I want to talk to people!”</p>
<p>Ciri sighed. “Why don’t we just go this time? How far did you say the next city is? You said we could maybe get me a silver dagger there?”</p>
<p>“I said no such thing,” Jaskier informed her, although he had certainly considered it. He decided not to dwell on the apparent guessing of his thoughts. “What happens if we run into another creature there? Before we get the dagger?”</p>
<p>She lifted her hands against the sun, palms open. “That’s what the rings are for, isn’t it?”</p>
<p>“Your hands look funny,” he told her, eyeing his silver jewelry sparkling in the girl’s fingers. They were too loose for her, and they had to stuff the space between the silver and her skin with fabric; Ciri’s hands resembled those of a badly sewn scarecrow.</p>
<p>“Well, whose fault is that?” she huffed.</p>
<p>“Yours.”</p>
<p>“Oh, come on, Jaskier! We stink, our food is nearly all gone, and you and I both know there’s no fish in this pond. And even if there were, you’re not gonna get anything with a stick and some ripped linen.”</p>
<p>“You lack faith in my fishing abilities, little one.”</p>
<p>“You were the one who said there was probably no fish here!”</p>
<p>He smirked at her. “I never said I wasn’t prone to hypocrisy.”</p>
<p>She rolled her eyes, in a similar way Geralt did right before he told Jaskier how infuriating he was. “Geralt could catch tons of fish in half an hour,” she said. “And he hunted for meat every day.”</p>
<p>“Well, see? That’s your problem right there. This enthusiasm of yours to compare the successes of a trained huntsman to a humble troubadour’s ever benevolent attempts to keep you warm and fed. My set of skills lie elsewhere. I am a translator of human emotions, an appreciator of sorrow and beauty in equal measures, a storyteller, a musician, an artisan of words! And might I add, princess, that be as it may, I was the one to save your life twice now.”</p>
<p>“Why, thank you, humble troubadour, sir. Are you looking for a trophy?”</p>
<p>“Would it go with my outfit?” In a sing-song, he added, “Any notorious bard knows clothes and accessories must match.”</p>
<p>“Ugh!” She sat again, hugging her knees. “Are you always this insufferable? With Geralt too?”</p>
<p>“I’m usually told I’m quite delightful.”</p>
<p>“Geralt says that?”</p>
<p>“Not in words.” Jaskier tried not to think of the last time he saw the witcher, and what kind of words were exchanged on top of that mountain. “He’s not very good with words.”</p>
<p>“How many times were you stabbed for being like that?”</p>
<p>“What makes you think I get stabbed a lot? I’m no witcher, I’m a bard.”</p>
<p>She shrugged, gesturing vaguely at him. “I mean…”</p>
<p>“I get the impression you’re trying to offend me, little one. I’ll let you know: if there are ever people affected by me, it's by how emotional my presence makes them.”</p>
<p>“Maybe when you’re singing, yes, but when you’re like that you’re a little bit—“ she mimicked holding a sharp object, flicking her hand back and forth “—y’know, stabby stabby.”</p>
<p>“Hmm…”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“I’m trying to decide how morally superior I’ll remain if I tell my friend’s young, naive, knows-nothing-at-all-and-is-quite-frankly-a-bit-dense royal child of surprise to fuck off.”</p>
<p>Ciri cackled, the loudest she had ever done in all the time they had been traveling together. She was quite the ugly laugher, as graceful as a witcher trying to talk with his mouth full at dinner.</p>
<p>She laid down again amidst her fitful. Jaskier smiled, turning his head to look at her.</p>
<p>He said, “Did I ever tell you about the time Geralt literally wished a djinn to fuck off?”</p>
<p>Her eyes brightened, as they always did when Jaskier offered stories about their witcher. Jaskier was tactful about it, trading those tales for compliance and obedience—he never claimed to know fuck-all about keeping a child behaving, and Ciri, he soon learned, was a feisty one when feeling unsafe.</p>
<p>This time, though, the story was given freely.</p>
<p>“It all started when I was trying to catch a fish…”</p>
<p>Ciri was giggling uncontrollably by the time he finished the tale. Her cheeks were flushed, more than was expected after a fitful of laughter. Upon reaching for her forehead, he noticed the first signs of a fever. Before he could properly assess this new problem, however, a female voice came from somewhere behind them:</p>
<p>“A happy child! What delightful sounds it makes!”</p>
<p>Startled, both of them sat up and fretfully looked around, only to see no one near.</p>
<p>“Did… did you hear what I heard?” Ciri asked. A common question coming from her, usually uttered after one of her night terrors. This time, though, they were both very much awake.</p>
<p>“I…” Jaskier started, but, not knowing what to say, closed his mouth again. Although the pond was in the middle of a clearing, the forest floor was full of leaves and sticks; any passerby was sure to make some kind of sound—a human one, at least.</p>
<p>There was no one between the trees.</p>
<p>“Jaskier,” Ciri called. Reluctantly, heart threatening to jump through his throat, he looked at the girl, only to see her staring in the other direction. “Was that cottage there when we got here?”</p>
<p>He saw a little colorful cottage, made of fruit, cakes and other sweet goods. A new addition to the landscape. It looked inviting, small but cozy. He could swear he smelled baking pie emanating from its half-closed window.</p>
<p>They didn’t know how long they stared at the little charming cottage, until its front door opened. Nothing could be seen from inside it, only darkness. Still, there was an alluring aspect in the gesture, almost as if the cozy home was calling for them, inviting them in.</p>
<p>“Jaskier?” Ciri called, touching her own forehead. “I think I’m a little feverish. I might be seeing things.”</p>
<p>There was an ominous laughter—a female one. It sounded sweet and menacing enough to finally spur Jaskier on his feet.</p>
<p>“Yeah, no, fuck no,” he said, quickly grabbing their things and clasping Ciri’s shoulder as they sprinted out of there. “Don’t look back,” he told her. He had always thought the lullabies were just that: tales to tell the Kerackian children, to prevent them from entering the woods alone. As he ushered Ciri along, he sang the familiar verses from his childhood in a trembling tone: “<i>Candies, puppies, huggies, deep in the forest, don’t look back. Cubbies, duckies, mommies, ‘tis the forest witches looking for a snack.</i>”</p>
<p>A few hours later, when they found the roads again, Ciri turned to him and asked, “Where are we going now?”</p>
<p>Never had that question reverberated so deeply, so unpleasantly in his ribcage. Normally, the romanticism of that kind of pondering wouldn’t have escaped him, and Jaskier would let the road be the sole guide, let adventure seek him, or lure it with singing and inconsequential boldness. Nilfgaard had spoiled that. Roads and human settlements were to be avoided, and now, so was the Kerackian forest.</p>
<p>Jaskier sighed, shoulders somehow simultaneously tense and sagged. Even his lute case seemed to be weighing him down.</p>
<p>Still, the broad smile he gave her concealed it all. The back of his hand brushed against her warm forehead. “To safety. We’ll find shelter, okay? I promise.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>——</p>
</div>“Ngh—no! No, don’t hurt him! Let me go!”<p>Ciri squirmed and whimpered in her sleep. Wrapped in blankets inside the hole of a giant oak tree, she was mostly sheltered from the downpour, but the cocoon of fabric seemed to become a source of distress. Her wallows startled Jaskier awake, almost an automatic reaction by now.</p>
<p>“Ciri, Ciri,” he called, drawing the girl out of the tree and into his arms. It was a testament of his exhaustion that he managed to doze off even as heavy droplets fell on his face. The rainfall was lasting several days by now, ever since they crossed the Adalatte river. Although the Cidarian forests weren’t perceived as mystical as the woods of Brokilon, and weren’t as big, they were well known for the unrelenting weather, which kept humans and creatures alike well away—seldom those who ventured in the depths of the Cidarian forests left it unscathed. Jaskier had tried, once, when he was eleven, in one of his escape attempts to go to Oxenfurt, and was saved by a witcher he never had the pleasure of meeting again.</p>
<p>Despite all the tales, Jaskier had never heard of such a downpour. He tried to take shelter with Ciri as best as they could—which, given their most predicaments, meant precariously—and as often as possible, which delayed their progress through the woods even further.</p>
<p>The one positive thing in that whole impasse, however, was that Jaskier could be sure by now that they weren’t being followed.</p>
<p>“Let go,” Ciri cried, struggling and pushing him away. She managed a kick on his thigh; he cursed, but still held her.</p>
<p>“Shh,” he said, as soothingly as possible, “you’re safe, you’re all right.” And, rocking her gently, sang an old Cintran lullaby, the most effective one to calm her down: “<i>The lioness snarls, the lioness roars, the lioness rules every land she explores. The fog in the night shan’t lead you astray, for the lioness of Cintra every king is prey</i>”.</p>
<p>Widened green eyes stared at him as he sang. Ciri touched his face carefully, the silver ring, a little loose in her thumb, was warm against his cheek.</p>
<p>“I was dreaming,” she whispered, “I was a… wild animal… and the hunters, and you… and I… and then a wolf…”</p>
<p>“It was a dream, Ciri.”</p>
<p>“You don’t understand.” Glassy green eyes fixed on him almost pleadingly, begging him to see what she saw. “We were in danger. The wolf saved us.”</p>
<p>Jaskier flashed her an assuring smile, the least (and the most) he could do for her at the moment. “You were dreaming of our White Wolf, that’s all.”</p>
<p>She glared at him. “It wasn’t a white one. It was… very angry. Hurt. Furious.” She turned to the sky, pensive. The neverending grey of the clouds merged days and nights, emparing their ability to keep track of time.</p>
<p>He touched her forehead; her fever was worsening. He said, “Come on, get up. Let’s keep going, no use staying here when it’s doing nothing to keep us dry.”</p>
<p>Ciri grumbled—a wordless complaint at the lack of sleep and proper food. Their provisions had ended a while ago; they had been surviving on rainwater and wild fruits. Still, she followed him. Jaskier pulled the lost princess under his arm, enveloping them both in the leather cloak, the only piece of clothing remotely appropriate for sheltering them.</p>
<p>“When will it stop raining?” Ciri asked. “When will Geralt find us?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know, little one. Soon, hopefully. Come on, just a few kilometers more.”</p>
<p>“Where are we going?”</p>
<p>He didn’t answer.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>——</p>
</div><i>Chirp, chirp—chirp, chirp, chirp</i>—the old pine tree, on top of embellishing the window view, served as a stage for a symphony of enthusiastic birds announcing the end of the downpour. Their singing lulled Jaskier awake from the first truly restful night in a long while. He breathed in the scent of wet leaves, utterly content with the peace, the soft bed, and the sense of safety that had become rarity with the recent turns his life had taken.<p>He only realized he had been humming and tapping his fingers to the melody when the warm body under his palm stirred. Priscilla opened one eye, shut it again, and snuggled up further against him. “Not even morning yet,” she mumbled, sleepy and irritated. “Little band of motherfuckers.”</p>
<p>“Sorry,” Jaskier whispered, kissing her temple, “didn’t mean to wake you.”</p>
<p>His fingers wandered through her torso, getting reacquainted with the details engraved in his memory. Priscilla’s skin was like velvet, her body all delicate curves, golden locks sprawled in the pillow, and a soft belly rumbling in protest of last night’s preference for wine over solid food.</p>
<p>“You’re beautiful,” he told her, planting lingering kisses in the pathway of his touches. “The most beautiful woman in the entire Continent. The one good thing I could ever hope to find in Cidaris, a sight to behold.”</p>
<p>“So flattering.” She laughed a little, reciting in mockery, “Pretty words the poet purrs, thinking his lady naive, ignoring what she really wants is more sleep.”</p>
<p>“You wound me.” He stopped the suggestive fondling, resting back on the pillow. “As if I’d ever ignore any of my lady’s wishes.”</p>
<p>“Hiding from the sun until it slaps me in the face, that’s what I wish for.” She yawned. “I’m not one of the married madams you like to seduce, no use wooing me when you’re already sharing my bed.”</p>
<p>He smiled at her. “But I like it.”</p>
<p>She huffed and pulled him closer, allowing Jaskier to join the birds’ concert. He murmured softly in her temple, a melody composed in her dedication all those years ago, meant only for her ears in their quieter, cozier moments, with shared sips of sunlight and lazy affection as if nothing else ever mattered, as if whatever laid beyond their bed would never matter again.</p>
<p>When the sun rose fully and the world got noisier—dogs barking, townspeople talking in the streets—Priscilla accepted sleep wouldn’t claim her again. “You should make me breakfast,” she told him, in that sweet demanding tone of hers. “Cheese, eggs and fresh juice. No bread.”</p>
<p>He hummed in agreement and said, not for the first time, “Thank you for taking us in. I don’t know what we would’ve done without you.” Ciri’s fever had finally broken the previous day, only after Priscilla managed to successfully replicate the medicinal potion she learned from some kitchen witch in Hagge.</p>
<p>“Always,” she said, reaching behind her to caress his cheek, and taking a moment for reflection. “Fiona, she… she is no ordinary kid.”</p>
<p>He smiled at the memory of an exhausted, drenched, starving Ciri eyeing Priscilla with distrust, even with the fever at its peak, even after Jaskier told her it was okay. She found every excuse to touch Priscilla with the silver ring. Her apprehension was palpable—and, quite frankly, adorable—but on the second night, when he tucked her in the spare bedroom, dry, warm and well fed, Ciri let him know of her decision: “She seems okay. If you trust her, I guess she’s okay,” and was snoozing in less than two seconds.</p>
<p>“She’s quite lively, isn’t she?” he said.</p>
<p>Priscilla turned in the mattress, watching him when she asked, “What are you doing travelling with a twelve-year-old, Jaskier? Where did she come from? She’s not your daughter, is she? What are you gonna do with a kid to care for?”</p>
<p>Jaskier chose to not acknowledge any of those questions, asking instead, “Do you plan on staying here long?”</p>
<p>“Not sure,” she answered. “Thought of wintering here, better than in Aedirn. Too cold there. No space in court for me here, though, you know how Valdo gets with competition.”</p>
<p>“You should leave soon. Today. Go north, to Oxenfurt or Novigrad, I have friends there who could help you find your footing if needed.”</p>
<p>She gave him a bemused look. “Is there where you’re going?”</p>
<p>He didn’t answer.</p>
<p>“You’re leaving today, aren’t you?” she guessed. “With the child.”</p>
<p>“Thank you again for your aid, my love. I’m afraid I won’t be able to delight in your company any longer.” I might have endangered you just by spending the night, he didn’t say.</p>
<p>Priscilla frowned. “A mysterious child and barely a week of stay, you won’t tell me what’s going on… This whole ordeal has your witcher’s smell all over it.”</p>
<p>He neither confirmed nor denied that. “Go north,” was all he said. “War is approaching from the south. I know you like Cidaris, you always wanted to make your home here, but it is too close to the fallen kingdoms, too weak compared to them. You have no idea what kind of army they have.”</p>
<p>“I heard of Sodden and Cintra. Talk is that Brugge and Verden are also under siege.” She sighed, leaning back on Jaskier’s chest. He wrapped his arms around her. “Somehow I had the feeling this would happen,” she said. “I packed two bags for you and your mysterious child yesterday, while you slept. Some clean clothes, furs, provisions… Not much, very little coin, but I hope it will help.”</p>
<p>“Mm…” Jaskier tightened the embrace, wishing not for the first time the power to materialize all the affection he felt for this woman—a mountain of sapphires, maybe, to match her eyes, or a lute made of gold, enchanted to spill diamonds as she serenaded other lovers. “I could marry you, y’know,” he said.</p>
<p>She snorted. “On top of not telling me anything, he chooses to lie to me.”</p>
<p>“I’m not lying.” He pouted. “You doubt my love for you?”</p>
<p>“You love everyone, Jaskier.”</p>
<p>“You most.”</p>
<p>“Your witcher most,” she corrected.</p>
<p>He didn’t try to deny it. “You’re a close second, though.”</p>
<p>Priscilla laughed at that, and Jaskier pulled her over him, urging one last moment of losing themselves in one another before parting for good.</p>
<p>By midmorning, he had already bathed, dressed in new clothes, and organized his and Ciri’s traveling bags. Breakfast was about done when Ciri entered the modest kitchen. In hindsight, he should have guessed Priscilla would draw from her own fashion of when she was a little girl when lending Ciri new garments, the sentimental hoarder that she was.</p>
<p>“My heart!” Jaskier gasped when his eyes fell on Ciri, a hand to his chest for the dramatic effect.</p>
<p>“What?” Ciri barked, making a face, not bothering to disguise her disapproval. She was all color, mismatched pants, silk ribbons adorning her side braid, and a feathered beret to complement the outfit—a bard apprentice, in appearance if nothing else.</p>
<p>She almost looked like Essi did at that age.</p>
<p>Ciri was glaring at him, so Jaskier put those thoughts aside and said, softly, “Nothing, little one. Sit down for breakfast, will you?”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>——</p>
</div>Priscilla was building a life in Cidaris. Even without a place in the Cidarian court, she was clearly doing well amongst townsfolk, with her simple but cozy home, her full pantry and two horses to her name.<p>“Mona and Pegasus,” she said, as a matter of introduction. “I’ve had them for a while. Won them in a limerick duel against Valdo, can you believe it?”</p>
<p>Ciri went straight to Pegasus, the biggest of the two equines. Jaskier looked around the otherwise empty stables, and turned to Priscilla. “What about you?”</p>
<p>“Huh?”</p>
<p>“We can’t take both of your horses, you’ll have no means to leave.”</p>
<p>“Jaskier…”</p>
<p>“Priscilla.” Jaskier grabbed her by the shoulders, squeezing them, making their eyes lock—sapphire on cornflower blue. It pained him to separate her from this life she evidently enjoyed, but he would never forgive himself if misery fell onto her because he wasn’t cautious enough. “Listen to me. You can’t stay here. Don’t go further south, not ever, not even for a good gig, you hear me? Not even for courtly invitations. Find Shani in Oxenfurt if you need to, tell her my name and stay there for a while. Please, Priscilla. I’ll beg if I need to. Don't make me need to.”</p>
<p>As it dawned on her the seriousness of the situation, her drive to argue diminished. “You really won’t tell me what’s going on, will you?”</p>
<p>He swallowed, but shook his head, not looking away even when hurt painted her beautiful face.</p>
<p>“Let me go with you,” she tried.</p>
<p>“Unwise. You’ll be better off away from us.”</p>
<p>She huffed, but finally nodded. “Fine. Take Pegasus, then, he will hold up both of you better.”</p>
<p>Jaskier exhaled in relief. “I’m sorry I’m doing this.”</p>
<p>Priscilla smiled at him. “No, you’re not. It’s for your witcher.”</p>
<p>He fetched the diamond gifted to him by the princess of Temeria’s lady-in-waiting. He had it for years, but it never felt quite right to trade it off—not even when he found himself penniless, walking around with no notebook and chalk to write, unable to afford food.</p>
<p>He pushed the diamond into Priscilla’s hands. “For your troubles,” he said. “To help you rebuild your life up north. And if you ever need to buy someone’s silence, Melitele helps it be unnecessary.”</p>
<p>“Jaskier—”</p>
<p>“Please, take it. There isn’t much a bard on the run and his fake apprentice can do with jewels—not if we don’t want to raise suspicion, anyway.”</p>
<p>Priscilla nodded. “Here.” She pulled a little pendant from under her vests, and put it around Jaskier’s neck. “For protection,” she said.</p>
<p>Jaskier kissed her forehead, her cheek, and her mouth. “Thank you again. Be safe.” He hopped on Pegasus with Ciri after tying their saddlebags, and didn’t look back when they galloped away.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>——</p>
</div>“Why are we hiding? What are we waiting for?” Ciri asked that afternoon, impatient with Pegasus’s moment of rest that never seemed to end. They were officially in Temerian territory, although the borders with Cidaris existed only on paper—the two kingdoms thrived more in cooperation than competition, and so the borders were remarkably absent of officials to take notice of them.<p>“Dear heart, keep in mind one thing when dealing with bards: we are a stubborn lot,” Jaskier said, tying Priscilla’s pendant in Ciri’s wrist—a four leafed shamrock, pressed into something resembling translucent sap. “I just need to make sure, or else I’m afraid we’re gonna have to go back.”</p>
<p>Ciri eyed him questioningly. “We aren’t supposed to go back south, not ever. You said so yourself.”</p>
<p>“I know.”</p>
<p>They waited for about one hour more before hearing trotting in the distance. They watched as Mona crossed the horizon, fast paced, a flash of colors and blonde hair fluttering over the mare’s saddle.</p>
<p>“I think she’s trying to catch up with us,” Ciri observed. “Shouldn’t we go after her?”</p>
<p>“No.” Jaskier sighed in relief. “Goddesses be good, she will try to catch up with us all the way to Oxenfurt. Come on, off we go.” He pulled on Pegasus’s reins, walking while Ciri mounted. “We should be avoiding the main roads.”</p>
<p>“Where are we going?”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>——</p>
</div>“Gors Velen,” Jaskier told the dwarves they encountered on one of the smaller roads—a troupe of smiths, craftsmen, and entertainers seeking employment in the festivals that were to happen in a fortnight. Festivities in that region at that time of the year were novelty, but not surprising. War did things to people; finding new ways of circulating money became as crucial as finding new forms of escapism.<p>He flashed his best, most charming smile at the entourage and said, indicating Ciri behind him on the saddle, “It’s the little lady’s wish to see the festivities. I couldn’t for the life of me disappoint her in times such as these.”</p>
<p>“Join us, then!” Came the offer, along with sympathetic nods. “We have enough for our ponies and our horse, and it’s always good to travel with a singer.”</p>
<p>The temporary escort was, of course, welcome, and the free horse care was a fortunate perk. After the initial hurried galloping out of Cidaris (a one-time thing), Jaskier and Ciri soon found out Pegasus was not the most cooperative of geldings. He was, in fact, quite lazy, stubborn and slow on the trot—like Jaskier himself, Ciri told him one night, and laughed at her own joke.</p>
<p>Thanks to the added company, the trip was uneventful. Jaskier thanked the troupe when they reached their destination, promising to meet them again once the festivals started. “Of course I’m going to join the bardic competition! We just need to find her aunt first and get settled,” he said, and pulled on Pegasus’s reins a couple moments later, leaving the city altogether.</p>
<p>“We’re going to Brugge,” he told the Temerian soldiers guarding one of the many new road tolls—gifts, apparently, from the king to his subjects in these delicate times. The tale was old as time: the soldiers were supposed to be vigilant of spies and potential robbers, so of course they turned their scrutiny to the most unthreatening travelers.</p>
<p>“And what business do you have in Brugge?”</p>
<p>“We’re a troubadour and his apprentice. The matters we have with King Venslav are our own.”</p>
<p>“I don’t advise you going south, m’lord, not an ounce of good news has come from there lately.”</p>
<p>“Did I, at any moment, ask for your opinion?” Jaskier raised his voice, taking full advantage of the arrogant tone inflicted into noble children from an early age. “Let us pass and go south in peace, or suffer the fury of the king when he has no entertainment for his daughter’s name day.”</p>
<p>“Aye, sir,” the guard said, his demeanor changing entirely. “Very sorry, sir, it’s only my job to ask.”</p>
<p>Once out of sight, Jaskier pulled Pegasus’s reins and followed the road leading north.</p>
<p>To the devout merchant they met two days later, Jaskier said, “Ellander.” He could tell a pious imbecile when he met one. “My girl is to become a priestess of Melitele, as her heart calls ever since she was young.”</p>
<p>“Ah, what a fortunate surprise!” The kind merchant nodded in approval. “The world is in dire need of more faith. Especially in these trying times.”</p>
<p>“Indeed.”</p>
<p>Jaskier ignored Ciri's scowl and accepted the merchant’s invitation to travel to Vizima together. His chariot was filled with grains and nice fabric that only noblemen ever had the chance of wearing.</p>
<p>Ciri’s mood was sour even though the merchant kept doting on her with little gifts, nice meals and stories of saints and miracles that he genuinely thought were inspiring, not an ounce of cynicism in his tone.</p>
<p>“I’m not going to be a priestess,” she whispered to Jaskier one night, a demand and a warning: <i>make me and I’ll run away</i>.</p>
<p>“Of course you aren’t,” he said emphatically. Hiding Ciri in Nenneke’s temple had briefly crossed his mind, but Jaskier quickly shook that thought aside. Not only he wasn’t highly esteemed by the priestess, there was no guarantee that she would believe him with his story of Geralt’s child of surprise. She might as well think he was taking advantage of her generosity and send Ciri somewhere else to actually become an acolyte of Melitele without telling him. “Just play your part and don’t let us starve, will you?”</p>
<p>Oxenfurt became their destination once they reached the Pontar river. Whenever asked, he indicated Ciri behind him on the saddle and said, “She is my goddaughter, she is to become a doctor.”</p>
<p>They camped in a small clearance not far from Oxenfurt, never actually entering the city after crossing the Pontar. Jaskier was counting the last of their coin, dinner stewing on the fire, when Ciri decided she had had enough.</p>
<p>She slapped shut the book she had been pretending to read. “Where are we really going?”</p>
<p>Jaskier recognized a losing battle when he saw one. Still, stubbornly, he said, “To sleep, I suppose, after dinner. Unless you want to read for a bit longer?”</p>
<p>“Don’t evade the question!” She looked at him defiantly. “And don’t lie! You tell other people all these lies, you make up all those things as we go, you say this and that even when we don’t know any of those people, you make me say this and that so we can have food and shelter and protection on the road, but you’re always lying! Even to me! I still don’t know where you’re taking me. I won’t stand it no more, so tell me! Tell me now, or I swear I’ll run away the moment you fall asleep and you won’t ever see me again.”</p>
<p>Jaskier stared at her for a few moments, and sighed. “All right. Come here.”</p>
<p>He drew a map from his belongings while Ciri sat down in front of him. He unfolded the paper between them.</p>
<p>“What do you know about the witchers’ keep?” he spoke lowly, as though he were telling her a secret.</p>
<p>Ciri blinked and looked up, trying to rummage around in her memories. “I was taught that witchers are known to live in fortresses, heavily guarded castles in the outskirts of kingdoms, far away enough that not even the kings know if they are in their territories. Cintra doesn’t have a witchers’ keep, my gr—Queen Calanthe knows that for sure because she sent several parties to ransack the four corners of the kingdom in search of one when I was little. Nobody ever found a thing, in more than five years of expeditions.”</p>
<p>“And do you know anything about the school of the wolf?”</p>
<p>“That’s Geralt’s school, isn’t it? You told me yourself. And I noticed his medallion!”</p>
<p>Jaskier nodded. “Kaer Morhen. That’s what it’s called.”</p>
<p>“Is that where we’re going? Where is it?”</p>
<p>“Well… That’s our problem. You see, Geralt’s never told me much about it. Certainly never where it is. The only bits of information I could pluck from him in two decades are: it’s on the top of some kind of mountain, and a river runs nearby.”</p>
<p>“Why did he never tell you anything about it?”</p>
<p>Jaskier shrugged, snickering so as to not betray his true feelings. “Geralt is… touchy with certain subjects.”</p>
<p>Ciri nodded, needing no more convincing about that whatsoever. “So…”</p>
<p>“We have a destination, but only by name. All I know is it's in the north. So…” He gestured with his shoulders. “North we’ve been going.”</p>
<p>“But how are we going to get there? Look how many mountains this map has! You don’t expect us to climb every single one in trial and error, do you?”</p>
<p>Jaskier laughed. “Wouldn’t that be quite the adventure?” When Ciri scowled at him, he sighed. “I have no idea, dear heart. How are we getting somewhere if we don’t know where we’re supposed to go? It’s the poet’s dilemma, but in our case it’s less figurative than what I’m used to. Where to go when you don’t know your destination? Isn’t this our whole life’s greatest question? We’re taught to—“</p>
<p>“Jaskier!”</p>
<p>“Sorry, sorry. Yeah, so. Kaer Morhen. Well… Here’s what we know: it’s up in the mountains on the far north of the Continent.”</p>
<p>“That doesn’t exactly narrow down our possibilities.”</p>
<p>Jaskier and Ciri were silent for a moment, staring at the northern portion of the map, with its mountains and rivers and the out-of-date borders. No map ever depicted the regions’ truly important aspects of their cultures, their customs, their food, the best cabarets to visit… a shame, really.</p>
<p>“A river,” he said eventually, tapping the map as he spoke. “It’s close to a river. I know for certain it’s not Caingorn, Geralt hates that place. So that narrows it to…” He traced the rivers which sprung from the furthest mountains in the north. “Kaedwen and Poviss.”</p>
<p>“That’s on completely opposite sides!”</p>
<p>“Yeah, doesn’t exactly help us that much, does it?”</p>
<p>Ciri frowned. “We have to start somewhere. Do you think Geralt will find us there?” </p>
<p>She was looking at him with those big green eyes. Jaskier flashed his teeth at her, choosing to not say that, if Geralt hadn’t found them thus far, something had to be blocking him. Either injuries, or capture, or…</p>
<p>“I trust he will,” he told her instead. “I could bet my money that he might already be there waiting for us, certainly badmouthing me for taking the longest route.”</p>
<p>Ciri chuckled. “He will smack you in the head for saying I had to be trapped in a temple.”</p>
<p>“No, he will praise us for our deceiving abilities.”</p>
<p>“Sure.” She rolled her eyes. “Which one we’ll go to, then?”</p>
<p>“Do you want to decide? Kaedwen is closer, but it has more river springs; we could be wandering there the entire winter and never find anything. Poviss is farther from here, but there’s only one big river springing from the mountains. What do you think, princess?”</p>
<p>Ciri eyed the map intently, considering the options with caution. “Let’s go to Poviss,” she decided, “at least there’s only one possibility there. If we’re wrong, we can go back and wander Kaedwen’s mountains.”</p>
<p>Jaskier folded the map. “Poviss it is. Before that, though, we should really get some sleep.”</p>
<p>Their belongings packed, stew consumed, and newly acquired bedrolls (gifted to them by the kind pious merchant) spread side by side close to the diminishing fire, Jaskier had an afterthought right before dozing off.</p>
<p>“Oh, and Fiona?”</p>
<p>“Hm?”</p>
<p>“You really should tone down the angry royalty attitude. Nice peasant girls don’t talk to anyone like that.”</p>
<p>Ciri huffed, but didn’t talk back.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>——</p>
</div>“Are you sure about this place?” Ciri asked upon seeing the inn Jaskier had chosen to spend the night. “Are you sure we have enough coin?”<p>“Let me worry about that, little one.”</p>
<p>Jaskier didn’t want to stop for the night. He didn’t want to stop at all, but continuing on the road also wasn’t an option. </p>
<p>He had noticed them shortly after crossing the Redanian borders.</p>
<p>Their presence wasn’t exactly unexpected. While some kingdoms were known for their armies, Redania’s strength lay mostly in its carefully curated net of spies. Jaskier ignored his own ties to Dijkstra with the same vehemence humans ignored their own faults in the matters of the heart, which meant, naturally, that the existence of such an organization eventually came back to bite him in the arse.</p>
<p>Despite their avoidance of big cities such as Tretogor and Novigrad, the leeway to escape was narrow. Villages were filled with recognizable faces, and even the roads were cluttered with Dijkstra’s pawns, who emulated the spymaster’s demeanor so well it bordered the line of comicality.</p>
<p> (Perhaps he should write a jester’s ballad about that.)</p>
<p>Furthermore, it became clear Pegasus wouldn’t keep up with the fast pace he was trying to impose. Considering all their predicaments, enjoying a little luxury was the least Jaskier could do for now.</p>
<p>“Come on, now,” Jaskier said, guiding Ciri inside the simple—but luxurious for the small touristic town’s standards—inn. “Let me do the talking,” he told her.</p>
<p>It was barely noon. They were having a late breakfast in the inn’s saloon when the first man approached them.</p>
<p>“Jaskier, the famous troubadour,” the man said. “Big fan. It’s an honour to meet you, sir. Just imagine, a celebrity like yourself in our little town!”</p>
<p>“You sell your home short,” Jaskier said, grinning broadly. “The honour is mine to be graced with such a cozy place to rest my tired bones. I tell you, Iklifville brings me childhood memories of the best kind.”</p>
<p>The man laughed, loud and boisterous, attracting curious gazes—not all of them Dijkstra’s—and Jaskier didn’t miss the quick slide of eyes towards Ciri. “You’re very welcome. I’ll let you eat in peace now.”</p>
<p>“Thank you.”</p>
<p>The second man approached them when they were tending to Pegasus, who needed more than an afternoon to rest if they wanted him to cooperate with a quick galloping for the next few days. The man greeted them on the stables, and Jaskier instinctively drew Ciri closer, circling an arm around her shoulders.</p>
<p>“A strong, well-behaved gelding you have there, sir,” the man said, with too large of a grin on his face. “It's not easy to find a sturdy one such as yours.”</p>
<p>“Thank you,” Jaskier said, knowing very well that Pegasus was not that impressive; with the lack of whatever discipline Priscilla had been tending him with, Pegasus quickly grew fat and disdainful of receiving orders. “I only feed him the best rations, and back home he is given the best of carers to dote on him.”</p>
<p>“Home?” The man asked with interest, glancing for half a second at Ciri. “And where would that be?”</p>
<p>“Oxenfurt, of course! Don’t tell me you don’t recognize me, sir. I <i>am</i> very famous. And it’s my personal vow to never mistreat a fan. Would you like an autograph?”</p>
<p>Despite his original apprehension, as the day went by Jaskier relaxed a bit. The thing was: Dijkstra’s net was huge, and as every grand enterprise that spun an entire country and so forth, it had its fair share of weak links. It wasn’t difficult to learn that Dijkstra sent his best men to spy on other kingdoms, or kept them close, surveilling Tretogor. Those who were stationed in the smaller, rural areas of Redania weren’t brilliant enough to confuse an experienced and quite smart (but humble) poetaster. It was easy to put them off with his rambunctious nature.</p>
<p>And everyone knew Dijkstra despised useless reports; no one would want to risk sending the quite ordinary intel of the famously brazen, laggard, dangler bard visiting a touristic town with a female companion by his side. As long as that was all they knew, Dijkstra would never even know Jaskier stepped into Redanian territory.</p>
<p>Which put Jaskier's mind at ease, at least for a little bit. He would have time to refill their provisions and maybe take a moment to rest, and they would be on their way at the first sight of sunlight.</p>
<p>He and Ciri were doing exactly that—refilling their provisions in the market—when the third person approached them. “Jaskier, the famous troubadour,” the woman said, feigning surprise at the sight of him.</p>
<p>Her smirk was a juxtaposition to the blood running cold through Jaskier’s veins. He recognized the short young woman with frizzy hair, a cunning mind and pouty lips: Ilona, not one of Dijkstra’s pawns, but one of Philippa Eilhart’s owls.</p>
<p>Shit, Jaskier thought. <i>Shit, shit, shit</i>.</p>
<p>“Ilona, my dear!” He drew her into a hug—felt no weapons underneath her vests. “Long time no see! You look as beautiful as ever. What brings you to Iklifville?”</p>
<p>“I could ask you the same thing! It’s not often we see names such as yourself in such a small place.”</p>
<p>“Heard talk about a master craftsman whose lutes are more than phenomenal,” he lied easily, “needed to check it out.”</p>
<p>She chuckled. “You bards and your instruments. Well, did you find him?”</p>
<p>He gestured around them. “The beautiful scenery here distracted me, can you believe it?”</p>
<p>She laughed, but her tone was dry when she said, “No, I can’t.” She cleared her throat and, more pleasantly, continued, “So, I heard Dijkstra sent you to Sodden? Tragic stories keep coming by, are they any truth?”</p>
<p>Jaskier didn’t ask how she knew of his supposedly secret mission in Sodden. “Very much so,” he answered somberly. “Saw with my own eyes. I highly doubt the world has ever seen such unprecedented devastation.”</p>
<p>“Oh? A pity. Though I’m sure King Foltest already has his eyes on that territory. If we don’t get there first, that is.” She spoke calmly, not even trying to lower her voice, as if their conversation didn’t involve secrets of the State whatsoever.</p>
<p>Jaskier bought her bluff.</p>
<p>“Wouldn’t doubt it. Although…” He started to walk, pretending to be interested in the products on display all across the marketplace. Ilona fell into step next to him, and Ciri followed closely on Jaskier’s other side, not uttering a word. “The place was left in wrecks. Gruesome, as battlefields are bound to be. I don’t know how I survived there, to be quite honest. And I don’t know if what’s left is worth conquering.”</p>
<p>“Anything is worth conquering,” Ilona interjected.</p>
<p>“Even if it’s in shambles? For what, for the sake of it?”</p>
<p>“I don’t suppose annexing new territories holds the same value to a highly esteemed whoremonger as seducing the next maiden would.” She was smirking as she spoke. “Then again, there is a reason why Fate chooses some for kings, and others for court jesters.”</p>
<p>Jaskier didn’t rise to the bait. “Couldn’t have put it better!” he said, cheerfully. “It is Fate’s way to prove it knows a thing or two, from time to time.”</p>
<p>She huffed, rolled her round eyes. “I have to tell you, I’m surprised to see you back. Most who were sent to Sodden haven’t come back. When you failed to show your face, rumour spread that our esteemed troubadour perished along with the fourteen mages of the hill.”</p>
<p>“And you know that how…?”</p>
<p>She smirked, her brown, penetrating gaze filled with mockery. She didn’t say anything.</p>
<p>“Well,” Jaskier said, “doesn’t surprise me. As I said, everything down there was chaotic, to put it mildly.”</p>
<p>“I’m sure you have many tales to sing about that.”</p>
<p>“As soon as my inspiration kicks in!”</p>
<p>They stopped at a stand just near the end of the marketplace. Jaskier could feel Ilona’s intent gaze as he bought Ciri a candyfloss. A quick pause to check up on the girl, who was as pale as a ghost, and a vain attempt to stall in hopes Ilona would tire of them and proceed on her own way.</p>
<p>“So, what brings you to Iklifville?” Jaskier asked as they went back to walking. They were leaving the market now. Unwilling to guide one of Philippa’s owls to the inn they were staying at, Jaskier preferred to follow Ilona around.</p>
<p>“I could ask you the same thing, bard. It’s not often we see famous names such as yourself in small places like this.”</p>
<p>It was a trick as old as time: repeat conversations until the other party got caught in their own lie. “I told you about the superb craftsman already,” Jaskier said, good naturedly.</p>
<p>“Well, after you deal with your own affairs, are you answering the summoning, then?”</p>
<p>“Oh?”</p>
<p>“Dijkstra’s. Not a month ago he called everyone that went south back to Tretogor. Says he wants to gather intel.” She narrowed her eyes. “Weren’t you aware?”</p>
<p>“Of course I was! Am! Tretogor is my next stop after I’ve fulfilled my goals here, of course.”</p>
<p>“Good.” She nodded. “How long will your business here take? We could travel to Tretogor together.”</p>
<p>“Dijkstra also summoned you?” he asked. No Owl answered to Dijkstra, not ever.</p>
<p>Ilona shrugged absentmindedly.</p>
<p>“Well, first we have to… find the craftsman, you see. It might take me a little while.”</p>
<p>“I understand. I’m in no rush.” She flashed him a grin as false as an old king’s dyed black hair. “It will be good to travel with a bard for once. Be accompanied by songs, stories…”</p>
<p>“Good, good.” He matched her grin, winking for good measure. “It will be good to travel with a fine company such as yourself.”</p>
<p>She scoffed. “I take it back. You won’t be half as amusing if you keep flirting like that. I don’t even like your kind, as I’m sure you’re well aware.”</p>
<p>“My appreciation for beauty has nothing to do with that.” He chuckled, and schooling his voice, asked, “Oh, by the way, what Dijkstra finds so important that he summoned everyone back, do you happen to know?”</p>
<p>She arched an eyebrow, giving him an odd look. “Don’t you know? Ugh, serves him right for hiring second-hand quality.”</p>
<p>“Hey!” Jaskier protested, feigning offence.</p>
<p>Ilona’s voice actually lowered a bit as she spoke, “Intel says the Lion Cub of Cintra is alive. Cintra’s dynasty lives. If the girl falls on Nilfgaardian hands, it will be a legitimate way of adding victory to their repertoire. If <i>we</i> find her first, Redania will be in advantage on the run for the Cintran throne.”</p>
<p>“Oh?”</p>
<p>“Don’t you know anything? Ugh, poets. Vagabond poets!” She approached further as she disclosed, “The northern countries, along with Queen Meve, are set to have a council meeting in a couple of months to figure out what to do. Everyone is on a hunt for the girl, Cirilla of Cintra. Intel says she survived the fire, but no one knows how, or where she went. Very little intel on that, we barely even know her appearance.”</p>
<p>“Oh, that’s—”</p>
<p>“It is said she is a scrawny young child, blonde of hair, much like her mother…” For the first time, Ilona looked pointedly at Ciri, who was chewing on her candyfloss with a lot of dedication. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, poet? Wasn’t your famous witcher tangled up with the Cintran court in some way? Talks about some claim on the Law of Surprise?”</p>
<p>“Me? Of course not! It’s the first I hear of this. I was in Sodden, don’t you remember? I know nothing about any of that, nothing at all.”</p>
<p>Ilona hummed. Her gaze lingered on Ciri for long moments. The girl didn’t betray the trembling apprehensiveness that Jaskier could feel under his palm, tactfully choosing to focus on her candyfloss.</p>
<p>“My niece,” Jaskier said instinctively, unable to keep his mouth shut when nervousness hit him, and clutching Ciri’s shoulder with his hand. “She wants to become a trobairitz herself. I’m here to have her own lute made and then I’ll escort her to Oxenfurt.”</p>
<p>“Oh, that’s marvelous!” Addressing Ciri, she asked, “What’s your name, sweetheart?”</p>
<p>“Fiona.”</p>
<p>“That’s your stage name?”</p>
<p>“She hasn’t picked a stage name yet,” Jaskier answered hurriedly. </p>
<p>Finally, Ilona’s gaze went back to Jaskier. “Well, I’m sure it’s just a matter of time. Let us hope she will pick a better one that doesn’t have anything with flowers.”</p>
<p>Jaskier laughed, trying his best to not betray his anxiousness. “Are you trying to offend me now?”</p>
<p>“Not at all.” Ilona lifted her hands, as if apologizing. “Well, here you are. I’ll see you when I see you. Don’t forget about me.” She waved as she walked away.</p>
<p>“Oh, I won’t,” Jaskier said.</p>
<p>Only after Ilona had disappeared by turning on a corner he realized she had escorted them to their inn.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>——</p>
</div>The door was closed with the sort of calmness and suavity neither of them felt. Ciri was trembling violently, her voice shaking with anxiety, her huge green eyes fixated on him supplicatingly.<p>“We need to get out of here!”</p>
<p>“I know.”</p>
<p>“I mean it! Now!”</p>
<p>“I know, little one. But not now. Not while there’s still daylight. I’ll order supper to be served to our rooms and we’ll prepare our luggage, okay? Please, calm down. Please, please, calm down.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>——</p>
</div>They didn’t jump the window this time, preferring a swift escape through the inn’s backdoor.<p>Pegasus neighed in irritation at being awoken, not loud enough to wake up the stableboy who slept on the corner of the barn, but enough that both Jaskier and Ciri froze for a couple of seconds.</p>
<p>“Come on, you stupid horse,” Jaskier whispered, pulling on Pegasus’s reins with the most force his gentleness with the animal could muster. “Please, cooperate just this once!”</p>
<p>Half an hour later, they were well into the road leading north. Jaskier let Ciri control the reins in front of him, if only to give the girl something to do. Pegasus whined and refused to trot faster no matter how much Ciri urged him on. Meanwhile, Jaskier debated internally whether they should venture into the forest at that hour, or it would be more prudent to stay on the road, where at least creatures would be less likely to catch them. There had been talk about a leshen in these woods, and Jaskier—</p>
<p>His musings were cut short by the sound of galloping not far behind. Jaskier could feel Ciri freezing in front of him, and he hugged the girl close and waited for the riders to reach them, hoping beyond hope that they were just some minor bandits on the hunt for valuables.</p>
<p>Ilona, along with two of Dijkstra’s men, surrounded them with their own horses.</p>
<p>“Gave up on that precious lute, master bard?”</p>
<p>“The man was very rude to us,” Jaskier said. “I was so offended I couldn’t stay in that city any longer.”</p>
<p>“Funny,” one of the men said. “Because we haven’t seen you leaving your rooms all night.”</p>
<p>“Nor have we seen any lute craftsman fellow,” the other man provided, certainly thinking himself helpful.</p>
<p>“Shut up!” Ilona barked. “Stop hindering and let us cut to the chase, bard. Your presence this far north in Iklifville makes no sense. Dijkstra has summoned us. Word says you never even went to Sodden.”</p>
<p>“How dare you?!” Jaskier shrieked, stalling now. “I sent my report! Not that it concerns any of you.”</p>
<p>“Not in person,” one of the thugs said, gritting his teeth.</p>
<p>“Oh, I’m sorry,” Jaskier said, mockingly, “I wasn't aware Dijkstra sent his personal secretary to pull on my ear. Leave me alone, will you? If the problem is my chosen method of reporting, I’ll deal with Dijkstra myself. Shoo, now.”</p>
<p>“Insolent peace of shit!” The thug on their right approached on his horse, a raised fist aimed at the poet. Jaskier and Ciri screeched, Jaskier cowering and holding Ciri tightly while the girl trembled and pulled hard on Pegasus’s reins. The gelding seemed unperturbed by the whole commotion, following the path at his own pace. Pegasus only whined in protest when the other horse got too close for his liking.</p>
<p>“Stop, you buffoon!” Ilona screamed. “No harming anyone until I tell you to!”</p>
<p>The thug obeyed, pulling his horse back a little.</p>
<p>Ilona rushed her own mare over, trotting side by side with Pegasus.</p>
<p>“Don’t mind them,” she said, in a tone that was probably meant to be soothing, but only came out as even more menacing. “I just want to talk to you, that’s all. You’ve been drawing our attention lately. Do you know why?”</p>
<p>Jaskier didn’t answer. His heart palpitated in his ribcage, threatening to melt and spill through his throat. He saw no way of escaping that situation. What good were his wits against such kind of coercion? What could his clever, pretty words do against raging fists?</p>
<p>He held Ciri impossibly tighter, getting the impression she was barely breathing.</p>
<p>Ilona asked, “Where are you going, bard?”</p>
<p>“O-Oxenfurt,” he managed to say.</p>
<p>“Bullshit,” said one of the thugs.</p>
<p>“This road leads north,” the other one provided.</p>
<p>Ilona said, “You see, it’s been puzzling us. A troubadour and his apprentice were spotted going to King Venslav’s court. Shortly after, the same pair, now a poetaster and an aspiring acolyte of Melitele, were seen travelling to Ellander. And it doesn’t stop there. The same pair of errants, picking their next destination anywhere the wind blows. Is that right?”</p>
<p>Jaskier sighed dramatically. “I told you, I’m taking my protegé to Oxenfurt. I’ll make a master balladeer out of her, you’ll see. In a couple of years you’ll hear the ballads of Redania’s finest offspring.”</p>
<p>Ilona cut him short. “You say Oxenfurt to us, you say Ellander, you say Novigrad, Ghelibol, even Aedirn. You say you have a lot of destinations, and yet, you seem to be travelling nowhere. How many of you are there, bard? Or how many stories have you fed people in order to cover the truth? Who is this girl, and where are you really going?”</p>
<p>“Don’t you know I make my living as a wandering troubadour? What crime is there in roaming the Continent looking for opportunities to perform?”</p>
<p>“Are you looking for that, or are you going to Oxenfurt?”</p>
<p>“Both! Can’t it be both? What makes you think I can’t do both, can’t show my dear protegé how to thrive in her desired craft before she engages in theoretical studies?”</p>
<p>“He spills poetry even when bulshitting us,” one of the men interjected. “Speak normally, bard.”</p>
<p>The other man spat on the ground. “Traitor!”</p>
<p>“It isn’t illegal to travel in Redania, no,” Ilona said. “It won’t ever be. However, it is quite contrary to good customs to not let Dijkstra be aware of your affairs when you’re one of his men.”</p>
<p>Jaskier tried to laugh it off, but his voice was trembling too much. “I don’t know what you think you know, darling, but I’ve followed all of Dijkstra’s instructions to the letter. Didn’t he receive my reports? Wait, don’t answer that, I’m fairly certain he wouldn’t entrust lower ranked men with his correspondence.” He sighed. “No matter. I will set things straight with Dijkstra at the appropriate time. First, though, I will take care of my personal, private affairs, so excuse us.”</p>
<p>He kicked Pegasus’s sides and, to his surprise, the gelding sped up his trot. Not enough to free Jaskier and Ciri from their pursuers, though.</p>
<p>“I’m tired of his shite,” Dijkstra’s man said, and Ilona didn’t protest when he ordered, “Get them!”</p>
<p>Suddenly, half a dozen men jumped out of the margins of the road, from the forest and bushes surrounding it. Jaskier had no idea they were around, and he didn’t have to study them to know they were armed. “Now, now, there’s no need for that—argh!”</p>
<p>The men grabbed Jaskier and Ciri, pulling them out of the horse, but not dragging them apart. “Jaskier!” Ciri yelled. Pegasus neighed, distressed. Jaskier hugged Ciri so tightly it was probably bruising her.</p>
<p>“Get your filthy hands off of us!” Jaskier screamed. “Let us go right this second! You have no right!”</p>
<p>“We’ve been following you.” Ilona’s gaze fell on Ciri, who recoiled under Jaskier’s embrace. “Intel says you never even went to Sodden. You backtracked from Kerack to here, mere weeks after the fall of Cintra, with a mysterious girl on your heels. You didn’t answer me. Who is this girl you’re protecting?”</p>
<p>“I told you! She’s my apprentice!”</p>
<p>“I don’t believe you.” </p>
<p>“The Wolf’s Destiny,” said one of the men, who was pulling Ciri’s hair. “One of your most famous songs. How does the chorus go? <i>The bond forged at last, three golden lions witnessed, the wolf and the cub shall never be apart</i> Your famous White Wolf.”</p>
<p>“Are you doubting my loyalties, Ilona?” Jaskier turned to the spy with unconcealed desperation.</p>
<p>She only stared down at them atop her mare. “Your loyalties are supposed to belong to Redania.”</p>
<p>“Dijkstra is well aware of my loyalties, as well as my passion for the seven arts. It surpasses everything else. If I see a talented apprentice, I’ll not let such talent go to waste. My passion has no interference whatsoever in my loyalty to Redania!”</p>
<p>“Worry not, then,” said another man, one of the bigger ones. “We’ll take her to Oxenfurt… if we pass by there eventually.” He gestured for the men to move. They dragged Ciri and Jaskier to opposite directions, separating them.</p>
<p>“Jaskier!” Ciri cried as she was carried away. One of the men placed her on Pegasus’s saddle and mounted the gelding with her. Pegasus neighed, distressed, trying to escape the assailants, but his reins were being held firmly by one of the thugs.</p>
<p>“Let her go!” Jaskier screamed, desperate. At least two men pinned him down to the ground, he could barely move his head. He watched helpless as the men searched through their belongings. “Let her go! She’s just a peasant girl, she’s just my niece, why are you doing this? I doubt Dijkstra ever told you to do this. Take me to him, but let her go, please!”</p>
<p>“Jaskier!” Ciri was bawling now, fighting the man atop the saddle and getting trumped at the back of her head in return.</p>
<p>From the corner of his vision, Jaskier thought he recognized distinguished cat-eyes in the darkness of the woods, not too far away, staring at them. The eyes blinked and vanished. It lasted half a second, and yet, it was instinctive for Jaskier to scream, “Geralt! Geralt! If you’re watching this and planning on saving us, now is a good—mphmm!”</p>
<p>They wrapped his mouth with tissues of his own bags, and tied his arms and legs. He struggled, howled under the cloths covering his mouth, but it was all in vain. Jaskier was no warrior; he was a coward, a scamper. They overpowered him with barely any effort.</p>
<p>Pegasus was freed from the saddlebags, Jaskier’s lute thrown carelessly on the ground, as well as clothes and his poetry notebooks. With Ciri trapped with one of the men atop the gelding, they were ready to gallop away, backtrack to Iklifville, and abandon Jaskier there—would they kill him? Was that it? Was that how it was going to end? In failure to protect the one person Jaskier knew mattered to Geralt more than anything?</p>
<p>“Enough of this,” Ilona commanded. “Let’s go.”</p>
<p>A cold, menacing voice filled the air, replacing Ciri’s bawls and Jaskier’s muffled screams. “Ordinary folk, ordinary deeds, misplaced in their purposefulness, small and weak and making threats!”</p>
<p>It was Ciri herself, Jaskier realized, perhaps belatedly—violent goosebumps engulfed him; the air felt heavier, and when he looked up, he noticed her ash blonde hair fluttering unnaturally.</p>
<p>“Hear me!” Ciri demanded, her voice growing metallic, unnatural, with every word. “Ordinary men have no place in the shattering world, when rivers dry and the Ice rules invincible. The Oracle utters no lies, the Time of Contempt shall come, the undignified shall perish in bitter devastation. Thus spoke Seeress Ithlin!” She turned her head, seemingly staring at each and every one of them through her glassy, feverish, pale green eyes. “I know you! I know your sins, your faults, your doubts, I shall teach you pain. Death has cold blue eyes that you shall meet before the end of times!”</p>
<p>All at once, the necks of their captors snapped.</p>
<p>They fell on the ground, lifeless.</p>
<p>Jaskier, who just a second ago was pinned to the ground, hit his back when he was pushed away with a gust of wind, somehow freed of the bounds. Flashbacks of the infamous betrothal in Cintra plagued his mind, and he stayed on the ground for a long while, stunned, afraid of inhaling air and finding out he couldn’t—finding out he, as well, was dead.</p>
<p>The horses neighed, whined, panicked, and galloped away, except for Pegasus. The lazy gelding was eating the grass by the side of the road as if nothing had happened, even as Ciri fluttered on the air atop of him. </p>
<p>Eventually, Jaskier gathered enough courage to breathe again.</p>
<p>He fell out of his stupor, only to realize Ciri was back to bawling, clutching her knees tightly by Pegasus’s side.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” she pleaded upon seeing Jaskier approaching. She clutched his arms; relief and panic flooded her eyes. He realized she thought she had killed him too. “I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry!”</p>
<p>“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he said, not really feeling the words leaving his mouth. “You saved our lives.”</p>
<p>Ciri kept crying. Jaskier didn’t know how long he stayed there with her, too stunned to provide any real comfort. The night air felt chilly. Unconsciously, he clutched to it, breathing deeply, his only reminder that he was here, that this was real.</p>
<p>All of this was real.</p>
<p>Was it that chilly a few moments ago?</p>
<p>Ciri was still crying, apologizing repeatedly. Jaskier cupped her cheeks. “Hey, none of that now,” he heard someone say in his own voice.</p>
<p>It all felt like a dream.</p>
<p>“Fiona?” Jaskier shook her a little. No answer. Her green eyes pierced through him, but she wasn’t seeing him.</p>
<p>“They’re here,” Ciri whispered.</p>
<p>“Ciri?”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>CIRILLA</b>
  </p>
</div>Jaskier felt the chilly wind penetrating his bone, freezing him from inside out. He thought he saw lightning on the corner of his eyes, but when he looked, there was no one there. They were alone in the woods. Mist surrounded them. Unnatural mist, freezing and threatening.<p>“They’re here,” Ciri repeated, voice shaking so bad it was barely audible.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>CHILD OF THE ELDER BLOOD</b>
  </p>
</div>Flashes of lightning. Thick mist, cold, and the paralyzing fear of witness death incarnated. The wind picked up, and Jaskier saw them:<p>Ghostly riders. Nightmarish, cadaverous armors. Shining blades adorned with runes, cutting through the night like lightning. They sang, some kind of exsanguinous musical in a language he didn’t understand, but that reached deeply inside the depths of his judgement, bringing upfront even the most submerged of fears.</p>
<p>He was a shallow puddle, and they were a bloodstock of war horses stomping on him on their path to war.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>COME TO US, CHILD. ZIRAEL, OH STARRY EYED</b>
  </p>
</div>“It’s not real,” Ciri said, and Jaskier couldn’t take his eyes from her. How many times had she seen them, and Jaskier told her it wasn’t real? It was. It really, really, absolutely fucking was real. “I won’t!”<p>“Ciri,” Jaskier tried—from where he drew strength to, only Melitele knew—but the ghostly riders spoke over him.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>YOU CAN’T RUN AWAY. DAUGHTER OF CHAOS, YOU BELONG TO US.</b>
  </p>
</div>“No!” Ciri cried.<div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>WE CAME TO COLLECT YOU, OH CHILD OF THE ELDER BLOOD. THE TIME HAS COME. WE ARE CORPSES, ZIRAEL. YOU CAN’T ESCAPE US.</b>
  </p>
</div>“No! I don’t want to! Go away!”<div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>DON’T REFUSE US, STARRY EYED. YOU CAN’T RENOUNCE YOURSELF. CHILD OF THE ELDER BLOOD, YOU ARE DESTINED TO US, DAUGHTER OF CHAOS, MOTHER OF THE CHOSEN ONE, ZIRAEL,</b>
  </p>
  <p>
    <b>YOU</b>
  </p>
  <p>
    <b>ARE</b>
  </p>
  <p>
    <b>DEATH</b>
  </p>
</div>Ciri screamed.<p>Jaskier collapsed beside one of the broken-necked corpses. All around them, the wind swirled, sturdy trees bent backwards, as though trying to escape Ciri’s wrath.</p>
<p>She will kill me, he thought.</p>
<p>The mist was dissipating, Pegasus was nowhere in sight anymore, and all of Jaskier’s body was filled with the urgent command to <i>run, run, run</i>.</p>
<p>He was petrified.</p>
<p>The words flashed through his mind with remarkable clarity: the cowardly poet, so fond of scampering, now perishes from the incompetence of his own legs. There really was poetry in everything, he thought, absurdly.</p>
<p>Melitele only knew where he drew strength to move his legs. The world spun around him. Jaskier scrambled up, feet hitting the ground hard, until his thigh muscles ached as he sought distance from the madness. Ciri's screams filled the night—<i>pop</i>, he heard deep in one ear; <i>pop</i>, in the other.</p>
<p>Nothingness took him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This chapter was a lot of fun to write,  but also very difficult. I put a lot effort into it, so I'd really appreciate some feedback! If you can, please let me know your thoughts in the comments &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Comments put a smile upon my face 🖤 I am also @lohrendrell on Tumblr if you want to talk to me about this fic.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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